


Before the End, A New Beginning

by spirrum



Series: A Different Path [1]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Unplanned Pregnancy, shameless fix-it fic, spoilers for the Trespasser dlc
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-17
Updated: 2015-11-30
Packaged: 2018-04-21 06:53:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 38,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4819442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spirrum/pseuds/spirrum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which a lapse in judgement changes everything.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Another canon divergence fic for you, exploring a "what if" concerning the possible turn of events if Solas had not been quite so...chaste, with regards to Lavellan.

She’s an unexpected complication from the moment they meet, the anchor in the heart of her palm and June’s markings proudly displayed on her face. One obstacle among many, but he tries his best to accommodate her existence into his plans; to teach her to control the mark, and to embrace the role appointed to her by religious zealots and enemies alike. He has always dealt efficiently with unforeseen hindrances, and knows how to best turn them to his advantage. Ellana Lavellan would be no different.

Except that she continues to surprise him in the months that follow their introduction, demonstrating a curiosity to rival his own, and more wisdom than he’d thought her people capable of cultivating. And he tries to nudge her along the path most favourable to his own agenda, but every time he thinks he’s in control she veers off, carving her own path with a tenacity that ought to have rankled, but that only leaves him shaking his head in wonder. She changes things. Changes his plans. Changes the world. Like she’s not just part of the weave, but rather the loom itself, and it’s all he can do not to let himself be swept up in the whole of her; the charming nature that could lay the whole of Thedas at her feet if she so desired.

She takes an interest in him early, and he knows the intrigue in her eyes for what it is from the moment he lifts her hand towards that first rift. And the admiration that sparks in their depths does not let go, as he’d hoped it would, given time. Instead she finds reasons to seek him out. She stops by for talks. To ask questions. She brings him cakes from the kitchens, and tea she assures him will not keep him awake. She fills the books he lends her with notes, odds and ends tucked between the pages – some of Sera’s more colourful doodles, and reading recommendations from Dorian. Questions in the margins, and flowers pressed between her favourite chapters. And she doesn’t remove them when she hands him back the books, but it’s not with a sinking feeling that he reads the intention in the gesture, but a spark of something he has not felt in a long time.

The first kiss is not planned. It’s ill-thought and impulsive, perhaps not so much on her part, but certainly on his. The second – he won’t lie and say that memories of the first haven’t crossed his mind more than they should have, so when she tugs at his hand he turns, and despite his better judgement, when he kisses her he does it like it’s been all that’s ever mattered. Her entire being pulls at him, the lilt of her laughter and her warm-bright spirit, a physical tether to a world he’d vowed not to grow attached to.

And so he vows something else. That the kisses will be all, and that he’ll allow himself this happiness, this remnant of how life had once been, whole and bright. Not the pale imitation of life that this world offers, obscured and disconnected from everything that makes sense. And he feels  _whole_  with her. Under his hands she’s solid, spirit sturdy and resilient, and vivid despite the world that raised her. She sighs her laughter against his mouth, and asks him questions until she’s out of breath, always inching closer when she thinks he’s not looking. And he knows what she’s doing, the hints she’s dropping without even an attempt at discretion, eyes dark and searching and fingers brushing against his, sensual even in their gentleness.

Bedding her would be dangerous. Bedding her would mean giving in to a weakness to which he’d thought himself impervious. And then there is the matter of the repercussions, and the fact that she doesn’t know who he is,  _what_  he is–

He shouldn’t risk it – he  _wouldn’t_  take advantage of her heart, when she doesn’t know the truth. But every time she leans against his desk he thinks of her atop it, and every time she spares him a glance from across the campfire he imagines asking her to take a walk, knowing full well what it would imply, but with every fleeting thought of her, on her back in the grass, hair fanned out beneath her, his resolve falters.

Two years they’ve known each other, a slowly budding friendship growing to something far beyond his expectations, and far beyond his control. And despite having long expected the invitation, it does nothing to prepare him for when it actually comes.

 

* * *

 

“Come on,” she says, one night at camp during a lull in the conversation. They’re establishing holdings in the Emerald Graves, and their days are long and spent mostly walking. He’s anticipated her approach for some time; there’s a boldness in her that has no lasting patience for continued prodding and hinting, but even so, the quiet offering takes him by surprise.

She doesn’t touch him, but the murmur falls like a caress. “I want to show you something.”

Surreptitious looks from around the campfire. Dorian hides a smile behind his book. Cassandra tracks their movements with far less discretion, but no one says a word as he rises from his seat to follow. Solas is neither blind nor deaf to the rumours making their way around the Keep, but chooses to ignore them now as any other day.

She leads him away from the camp, a meandering walk that allows her to run her fingers along the flowers growing down the steeply sloping hill, and off the well-trod path that curves around it. The canopy above grows thicker as they walk, away from the light of the campfire and the muted talk of their travelling party. Their own silence is companionable, the result of a friendship established over the course of long months, and many hours spent in each other’s company without the need of conversation. But Solas sees the anticipation in the tense set of her shoulders; the restless wringing of her hands. Bold heart notwithstanding, she’s clearly nervous.

“I found this earlier, when I went to scout the perimeter,” she says, pushing away a low-hanging branch to step inside a small clearing. The remnants of an old ruin lie scattered amidst the grass, the arching curve of two stone pillars jutting from the ground, wrapped in climbing vines. “Beautiful, isn’t it?” she asks, turning towards him. “Not like it was, but ruins have their charm, I think. Stories to tell.” She smiles. “I imagine you would know them, if you were to enter the Fade here.”

He doesn’t answer, gaze shifting to the old stone. The skeletal remnants of an ancient structure, meant to last centuries. A tangible reminder of his mistakes.

A hand bumps against his, and he draws his eyes from the ruin to find her face, her finely drawn features thrown in shadow, but her smile is a tentative quirk of the lips. Her  _vallaslin_  is hard to make out in the dark, and like the ruin, her presence is another reminder of what his actions led his people to become.

But for all that she bears her markings with a pride born of ignorance, he can’t make himself think her existence a mistake.

Her smile falters, just a fraction. He hasn’t spoken in some time, Solas realizes. “Something on your mind?”

He thinks of telling her, then. Everything. The truth, and all that it entails; all that it means. For her. For him. In that moment, he’s almost afraid he will, if only to share the burden that weighs heavier with every step, and with every breath taken that feels like it won’t fill his lungs properly. He wants her to know – thinks that perhaps she would understand, she of all people.

But she looks at him so calmly, as though the world isn’t a broken carcass; a mere shadow of what it should be. And he finds in her calm his own, though he doesn’t tell her what he wants to say. Instead he moves to kiss her; leans in to slide his hands into the fall of her hair, and finds her smile in the dark, curving against his lips. A pleased hum rises in her chest when she fists her hands in the wool of his tunic and angles her head, like they’ve done this dance many times and she knows the steps like she knows his entire being.

Except she doesn’t know him – not all of him, and the thought almost makes him pull away. Almost, because duty and common sense see it fit to flee with the feel of her, exposed skin warm and soft under the skim of his fingers; the muscles of her abdomen contracting with her growing mirth, and his searching touch where it slips beneath her shirt. It’s been a long time since he’s let down his defences so fully, and allowed someone so close, but she kisses his collar and finds his lips with her next breath, no hesitance to her movements but surety, her want unapologetic in its sincerity. It’s not been nearly as long for her, he knows, though she fumbles with the fastenings of his trousers, over-eager in a way that he’s never seen and that delights him, even more than the noise that slips from her parted mouth when she takes him within her, the drawn-out sound of something longed for finally sated, rising towards the canopy above.

“ _Solas_.”

And it’s so easy – such a remarkably simple matter, to be just that when she wraps her legs around his waist and gasps it against his skin. And he forgets that he’s ever been anything else – that he still has to be something other than just  _Solas_  – as he gives himself fully to the frantic press of her fingers against his back, a quiet urgency to draw him closer. And when he gives himself over, a lack of control over his own actions that almost draws an oath from his lips with his release, it’s to find her delighted smile in the gathering shadows.

Afterwards, she bears his weight, palms pressed flat against his spine, as though afraid he’ll pull away, even if he couldn’t have summoned the strength to move if his life depended on it. The heaving rise and fall of her chest mirrors his own, but interspersed with her breaths there’s laughter, soft and lovely where it brushes against his ear.

“We should be getting back,” he says, more brusquely than he’d intended, but if she reads anything into his sudden promptness, she probably thinks it due a desire for modesty. And it only serves to make her smile widen, when he scrambles to pull up his pants.

“If you go running back like  _that_ , they’ll know what happened.”

He gives her a droll look and – despite himself, and despite the knowledge that he’s crossed a line that can never be drawn again – a smile. “I suspect that is no secret.”

Ellana tilts her head. “Then it’s a small wonder Cassandra hasn’t come charging out of the bushes to defend my honour from your ravishing.”

Solas looks at her, sitting in the grass, shirt loose about her shoulders and her coat a rumpled pile beneath her. And it’s hard to remember that he should never have let things get this far, when she keeps looking at him like that. Serenely, like she could sit there for hours, cheerfully uncaring of her state of partial undress, and what they’d just done a clear writ in every line of her expressive face.

And it’s harder still, with his own body’s reaction – the calm that’s settled in his heart, after weeks with the longing that’s plagued his every waking moment.

She’s refastening the buttons of her shirt when he offers a hand. “Let us be grateful she did not let her instincts get the better of her.” Unlike him, but he tries not to think about his transgression as he helps her to her feet.

“Oh, I don’t know,” she says, the cheeky humour that’s become a rare occurrence with Corypheus’ ever-looming presence pushing to the surface. “With how she all but inhaled Varric’s new book, there’s a chance she’d go easy on you. A romantic at heart, though it’s hard to believe.”

Solas only shakes his head, his thoughts his own, and she’s still smiling as they walk back to camp, to a laden silence that speaks louder than Dorian’s muted cough, and Cassandra’s wide-sprung eyes. But Ellana’s response is only to smile wider, a shameless stretch of the lips that borders on suggestive, and she settles down in their midst like nothing out of the ordinary has occurred, comfortable in her decision in a way that almost makes him feel the same. There’s an inkling at the back of his mind, that he’s growing attachments he cannot afford, but it’s difficult to keep his attention on the matter at hand when her voice keeps drawing him back, to root his heart in the present.

And she seems – happy. Her own burdens resting a little lighter on her shoulders, and cheeks still a little flushed. Like she might have looked once, around the campfire with her clan. She’s not the Inquisitor tonight, and the fact that it’s his doing brings him equal parts satisfaction as apprehension, with the added weight of the realization. But he keeps quiet despite the curious looks, and tries not to think about what comes next. The days that will follow, and what they will mean for the choice he must make.

But the look she gives him before she ducks into her tent stays with him; settles in his heart like a warning, even heavier than the pendant around his neck.

 

* * *

 

It takes time to come to terms with the fact that he has to end it.

In fact, the knowledge doesn’t fully settle until their return to Skyhold, weeks later. Their expedition a success, the solitary quiet of his study welcomes him back, and after so long on the road with constant company it should have brought him peace of mind. But there is no respite to find in his books or the quiet murmurs drifting down from the levels above, when all he can think of is  _her_ , the feel of her beneath him, around him. Stolen glances as they’d walked, and the same thoughts in her own mind, evident in her slightly reddened cheeks, and the smile she could barely contain.

He slams his palms on the table in a fit of uncharacteristic frustration, sending papers scattering and a crow fluttering from its post in the rookery above. But if it draws anyone’s attention, no one mentions the slight slip in his usual composure.

He mulls it over for days – how to tell her; how to even begin explaining his reasons, paltry things that they are. Without the truth, all he has is vague answers, and he can’t help but wonder if he possesses the conviction to withstand her questioning. He’s seen her sit in judgement; the stern press of her brow as she makes her decisions. She’ll never let him go without asking why, not after what they’ve been through, and what they’ve become. After a kiss or two, perhaps he could have convinced her, but he’s let her see too much, has let her too close to even pretend that what they have doesn’t mean anything. And she deserves an explanation.

But despite not knowing how to broach the subject, approaching her proves difficult enough.

She’s not in her quarters when he inquires, nor anywhere else in the Keep. When asked, Sera shrugs and sends him on his way with an offhand comment of having seen her stalk across the courtyard some hours before. But no one in the tavern has seen her, and Cassandra only offers him a look that tells him she suspects exactly why he’s asking, and he’s in no mood to contradict her. A mule having dug its hooves in cannot be reasoned with, and so let her think him shameless. She’ll no doubt think him worse things soon enough.

In the end it’s Cole who provides an answer, though no less cryptic than the sudden absence of the one he seeks.

“Should have taken that tea. Didn’t think he’d say  _yes_. Why didn’t I think? She always told me to think. Stern face, lips pressed. No fooling about, look what happened to Tula and that lad from Wycome! Tula. Saddled. Burdened, when all he did was run.” He tilts his head, and seems to ponder his own words. “I don’t think Tula is a horse.”

Solas would have liked to claim he’s grown rather proficient at understanding Cole, but sometimes, lack of actual context makes it difficult to pull anything sensible from the stream of thoughts and impressions provided by his uncanny perceptiveness.

But, “Thank you, Cole,” he says, knowing there is no use asking for a different answer, and receives a small nod in return. His silence makes Solas wonder if she perhaps doesn’t want to be found. If it were the case, Cole would no doubt know, and proceed accordingly. It reinforces what he has already gathered, that she’s distressed, though by what is a different question. Perhaps she’s had word from her clan.  _Bad news?_

He doesn’t look for her further, deciding that whatever the source of her distress, he will not add to her overburdened heart today.

 

* * *

 

As it turns out, he’s spared the trouble of seeking her out himself, when she comes to find him the following morning.

She looks tired, sleepless circles beneath her eyes and a vestige of what has kept her awake sitting in the gaze that won’t quite meet his own. “Walk with me?”

Solas only nods, and when she makes towards the battlements, wonders at the strange alignment of things. It’s certainly an opportune place for the conversation that awaits, or – more so than the immediate centre of the gazes of those on the levels above in the rotunda, anyhow. And as they walk, passing the odd sentry that spares them no second glance, he imagines speaking the words he’s prepared; thinks of the hurt that will cross her face, and the anger that will replace the laughter he’s come to know and expect from their conversations.

But for all his careful preparation, he isn’t given the chance to speak. Coming to a stop, Ellana turns towards him, expression carefully contained and disconcertingly foreign on the face he knows so well he could sketch it in his sleep. And when she speaks, everything he’d been planning to say flees so quickly from his mind Solas wonders idly if he’d even had a plan to begin with.

“I, ah – I think I might be…pregnant.”


	2. Chapter 2

She speaks the words with admirable calm, considering the trembling clench of her fingers against her sides – to keep from touching her stomach, afraid that in accompaniment with what she just told him, the physical reminder might be too much. Only a few minutes into the conversation she’s been dreading for two days, and so far nothing has gone the way she’d planned, even after hours pondering how she would approach the subject.  _Cautiously_. No sudden movements, lest she send him running.

So much for that.

Running. She thinks of Tula again, the memory surprisingly persistent. A hunter in her clan, she’d been very young, younger than Ellana, when passing by Wycome had seen her charmed by the son of one of the human traders, who’d later claimed not to have touched her. She’d gone to live in the Alienage in Starkhaven with her babe, and became a cautionary tale for the rest of them.  _Never saddle yourself with the child of someone who’ll pick up his feet sooner than settle down._

Her Keeper’s words ringing in her ears, Ellana steels herself, and after a lengthy consideration of the stone beneath her feet, lifts her eyes to Solas. “You’re being very quiet.” She tries not to let her nervousness creep into the words, but it’s hard, with the silence pressing down like the sky.

Solas opens his mouth. Closes it. “I am–” But his usual eloquence is nowhere to be found now, when she could really need it. He shakes his head, though at what she can’t be sure. “And you are certain–?”

“I was going to have a healer confirm it,” she answers, before he can fully ask. “But I wanted to tell you before I did, just in case word starts to travel. There are a lot of wagging tongues in this Keep, and I didn’t want you to find out from someone else–” She clamps her mouth shut, aware that she’s rambling, and drags a breath through her nose. She hadn’t imagined she’d go about it elegantly, but she’s running at the mouth like a young thing caught behind the aravels with someone’s hand down her trousers. “But if you ask me…yes, I think I am.”

He’s pacing, now. She’s never seen him pace. The closest to agitated she’s ever known him to be was when his friend – the spirit – had cried out for help. But even then he hadn’t reacted like this, an almost-prowl to his restless step, unable to even stand still, as though if he stops he’ll have to come to terms with what she’s told him.

She refuses to so much as glance down at her stomach, though the temptation pulls and prods. She’d been ill for a week, and dismissed it as a persistent bout of sickness, brought by that cold shower of rain on their way back from Orlais. She hadn’t even visited the thought that it might be something else until the day of her monthlies had come and gone and she hadn’t bled. But even then she’d waited. Four whole days with the festering thought of what it might well be. Then, hard denial, followed by a slowly trickling dread that had come to settle like rock wedged between her ribs. And lastly, fear. She’s no young thing in need of words of caution, but with everything resting on her shoulders, she’s no better example to follow. Perhaps they’ll be telling stories of her in the future – Ellana Lavellan, the leader of the Inquisition who got herself knocked up during the greatest upheaval the world has seen in centuries, jeopardizing her entire operation and everything she’d worked for, just for a tumble in the grass.

She should have been more careful. She’s always been so careful in the past; has always thought things through. There are methods of prevention that she’s well acquainted with, but they’d never gone far enough for her to need them. Even that night in the glen, she hadn’t imagined he’d actually take her up on her offer. But he had, and it had been – better than she’d imagined, in the long months she’d dropped so many hints she was beginning to wonder if she should just give up the whole venture.

Now she wonders if she hadn’t been better off doing just that.

Pressing her hands to her temples does little to settle her rapidly churning thoughts, and so she turns her attention back to Solas, turned towards her but with gaze locked on something in the distance.

“Are you–” But she stops, not entirely certain what she’s asking.  _Are you angry? Disappointed?_

_As scared out of your wits as I am?_

At last she settles for something that doesn’t immediately reveal her own fears. “What are you thinking, Solas?”

He shakes his head, as though to counter the notion that he’s thinking at all, though she can see the swift passage of his thoughts behind his eyes. Hard to read on a good day, but she’s learned to know the signs; has known him long enough to pick out the minute changes in his expression, to gather some semblance of understanding of the inner workings of his mind. But she can’t read him now, or what he thinks. That she’s caught him by surprise is more than evident, but any more than that she can’t even hope to guess.

He shifts his gaze to meet hers then, and looks like he’s about to answer when the door to the nearest tower swings open, the scrape of it against the stone almost impossibly loud in the quiet. A runner appears, a nervous skip to his step that tells her there’s a missive to be delivered, and she’s certain he’s on his way to Cullen’s office, when he surprises her by coming to a stop before them.

“The Ambassador is asking for you, Ser.”

Oh, it’s the worst possible moment to receive a summons, and she’s sure it must show on her face, from how the runner’s expression falters. But she tries to be polite, even if she feels like screaming. “Can’t it wait?”

He swallows, gaze shifting between the two of them, aware that he’s interrupted something. “She said it was important,” he adds, with the hesitance of one clearly indecisive of whose temper he’d rather not be on the receiving end of, that of the cheerful-until-provoked Antivan Ambassador, or the Inquisitor herself.

She knows the fastest way to get back to the conversation at hand is just to get the summons over with, but she feels Solas’ presence behind her like a weight, and his continued silence heavier still. Of course, a distraction might be good to clear her own thoughts, as she’d been on the verge of blurting out her insecurities just moments before.

“I just – tell Josephine I’ll be right there.”

The runner nods, before making towards the door, or retreating, as it looks more like. When it slams shut it leaves just the two of them, save the howl of the wind and a silence that grows more oppressive with every second.

She means to say something, but doesn’t know what. An apology for being interrupted seems excessive, and so instead she settles for something a little less – awkward. “I, ah, should go see what she wants.” She’s not meeting his eyes. She can’t make herself risk it, suddenly afraid of what she’ll find in them. Lifting her hand, she makes to touch his arm, but cowardice stops her and she lets it drop.

“I – would you meet me later?” she asks then, her hurry evident in the rushed words. “In my quarters?” Somewhere a little more private, hopefully for an uninterrupted conversation. In her quarters she’ll feel less exposed, and if the precarious state of her emotions get the better of her, there’ll be no audience to watch her carefully contained composture cave in on itself. Far be it for the Inquisitor to show signs of weakness, but she doubts it would be good for morale if she was caught sobbing on the battlements.

She doesn’t wait for him to answer, something like panic pushing her into moving, and she doesn’t chance looking back as she makes to leave.

But she feels his eyes on her back as she escapes, all but running the last few steps towards the door.

 

* * *

 

She makes her way through the hall, avoiding the usual greetings and lingering glances that follow in her wake. The dreadful thought snaps at her heels, that they will know what she’s thinking about – what she’s hiding, and so it’s with a brusqueness that almost borders on rude that she slips between the nobles and agents gathered, towards the set of wooden doors at the other end.

Closing the first door behind her shuts off the noise from the hall, and a breath frees itself as she steps through the second and into the familiar office, the lit fireplace and the soft  _scratch-scratch_  of quill against paper reaching towards her even before she’s made it through the doorway. Upon her entry, Josephine lifts her eyes from her papers, a warm smile stretching across her face, to chase away the tiredness that lingers; lines a little deeper every day. Despite her considerable workload, the Ambassador always has time, and the sight of her prompts an inexplicable urge in Ellana, to share her troubles with someone not directly involved. Someone who’d offer counsel. And strange, imported comfort foods.

Someone like Josie.

 _That’s not why you’re here._ “You sent for me?”

“Ah, yes.” Putting her quill down, she makes to pull a parchment from the nearest pile. Holding it out towards her, Ellana tries to ignore how her hands shake when she makes to grab it. If Josephine notices, she doesn’t let on. “There is a request for your presence at a banquet this week. Normally I would not consider this an urgent matter, but they are – unusually persistent, and sadly, we could use their support, if we wish to make more headway in Nevarra. They expect an answer by tomorrow. Any later would be considered an insult.”

She looks at the invitation, the elegant lettering and the wax seal at the bottom, but the words don’t register, even as her eyes skim the contents. “Charming people,” she murmurs.

A breath that is almost a laugh. “You should ask Cassandra for stories,” Josephine says. “I have never met them, personally, but from their letters alone, I do not think her irritation is exaggerated.”

Ellana tries to smile, but though usually adept at posturing, it’s difficult to pretend with Josie. “Well, you can tell them I'll be there. Can’t be worse than a plague-ridden marsh.”

Josephine smiles. “I would not speak too quickly, Inquisitor.”

Ellana only shakes her head. “I’ll leave the letter writing to you.” Handing the invitation back, aware that she hasn’t actually read a single word, she faces the slowly sinking realization that now that her distraction is over, there’s a conversation that awaits. Her hands feel clammy as she thinks of his reaction – or, lack thereof. But then all she’d had to give him had been a speculation. Perhaps he hadn’t been able to fully accept the news, on account of there still being some uncertainty about her condition.

She’s just turned to leave, when she spins on her heel. “I need a healer.”

Dark brows rise, and Josephine’s face warps into an expression of outright surprise. And before she can open her mouth to speak, Ellana adds, “A mage. Someone – discreet.”

She knows Josephine won’t pry, but professionalism aside, the friendship they’ve cultivated over the past two years doesn’t allow for her to dismiss the matter without at least asking, “Is everything alright?”

Ellana hesitates. So easy to just tell her. So easy to share this, here, now, but – she needs time, to gather her thoughts. To talk to Solas again. And anyway, she needs to have it confirmed; to make sure that it’s not just an unfortunate alignment of coincidences, and it really is an unusually persistent stomach bug.

“I don’t know yet.”

She receives a small nod, one that tells Ellana her attempted lightness is not convincing in the least, but that’s all Josephine offers, as though what she’d asked for is just another matter, like inquiring about different bedding, because the feathers in her pillows make her sneeze. And Ellana has never felt more thankful for her business-like approach. If treated like any other matter, perhaps she’ll start to consider it as such.

“I will inquire with the mages. The hospitality you have shown by offering them allegiance will no doubt ensure the discretion you seek.” Her eyes linger, and Ellana can tell she wants to inquire further. “Should I have one sent to your quarters, or–?”

“Yes, that – yes. That would be best, I think.” It would be private. If she went to the mages herself, there might be talk. Questions asked. Rumours she can’t afford right now. “Thank you, Josie.”

Another nod, and before she can blurt anything else – before lets slip this one thing she wants to say more than anything, if only to have someone to talk to who won’t respond with accursed  _silence_  – Ellana turns to leave, steps more hurried than strictly necessary.

There’s a question that nags at her; if she’s not the one who’s really running. But she has no answer to give, even to herself, and that is perhaps the worst of all.

 

* * *

 

The healer that arrives at her quarters is a woman, her dark hair streaked with grey and pulled back in a severe knot, and wearing robes better suited for battle than house calls. She introduces herself as Marta, and unlike most in the Keep, doesn’t bother tacking a title onto her greeting, but there’s kindness beneath the hard lines of her face, and care to her matter-of-fact approach. Ellana directs her to the sofa, and when asked about her ailment, draws on the same courage that had pushed her to blurting the same words on the battlements earlier.

“I think I might be pregnant.”

But if she’d expected surprise, it’s only her own she finds, when Marta simply nods and asks her to lift up her shirt. That managed, hands come to press against her stomach, surprisingly warm, but it’s all she can do not to squirm in her seat.

“Hmm,” the healer says, the low sound revealing nothing of her discovery, until she adds, “Yes.”

Ellana sucks in a breath, uncertain if she’d heard right. “Yes?”

The repetition earns her a raised brow. “ _Yes_.” But honest amusement softens the hard line of her mouth as she pulls her hands back. “Not the answer you were hoping for, I take it.”

A protest rises, but doesn’t make it off her tongue. “I – don’t know what I was hoping for,” she admits instead.

Marta shrugs. “An honest answer. No need for shame.” She looks at Ellana. “We don’t always ask for this.”

It’s a comment that carries more than its simplicity implies, but it only makes her think of her careless actions. And the stunned silence that had met her declaration when she’d told him.

Unease makes her hands shake, and she tucks them against her stomach. “You won’t–”

Marta smiles, and old patience in the press of her lips. “Discretion was implied, don’t worry. I won’t breathe a word. However, if you don’t mind my saying so, I would advise you to tell someone. If you’re planning on keeping the child, there are certain measures to be taken. A change of pace. Stress is not advised, and I can only imagine you have enough of that these days.”

She inclines her head, expression carefully blank. “If I might ask,” she says then. Still no  _my lady_ , or even  _Herald_  or  _Inquisitor_. It’s a strangely refreshing change. “Are you planning on keeping it?”

The query makes her look up, startled, but her surprise only lasts a moment. It’s a question that needs answering, and sooner rather than later. Of course, there are ways to deal with it, if that was her decision. Certain herbs, taken before a certain time. And after…

Well.

She’d visited the thought earlier, before she’d been sure, but she’d been too preoccupied worrying about his reaction to be able to think much further. But she tries not to think of Solas now. Or of the anchor, or the Inquisition. She only thinks of the question, and the immediate answer that leaps to her mind, when rid of everything else.

“Yes,” she says, breath escaping with the word.

Marta doesn’t let on whether she’s in agreement with the decision or not, only nods as she rises from her seat. “I’m no midwife, but you know where to find me,” she declares simply, before retreating towards the staircase, leaving Ellana alone, one question answered but ten more rising to fill the space left.

She loses track of how long she sits there. The sun has climbed down from its zenith, towards the mountains beyond the high windows, to cast shadows across the carpets. She has no appetite, and they will have missed her at dinner, but no one has come to inquire and it’s a small mercy, when she doesn’t know if she could keep her face from revealing the turmoil of her thoughts. Cassandra would worry. Dorian would go so far as to ask, and however unintentional, Cole would supply them with all the answers they need.

And Solas...

Then, the whining  _creak_  of door opening below, before it slips shut, and she doesn’t have to make a guess at who has come to visit. She had asked him to, after all. 

Quiet footsteps up the stairs behind her, and she’s trying to figure out what to say now – how to bring up the same conversation she’d all but run from earlier, and to announce that she’s had her fears confirmed. But from the expression that crosses his face as he makes the landing and his eyes find hers, she doesn’t have to say anything at all.

Solas comes to a stop, not far from the sofa. She hasn’t moved, and hasn’t bothered to tuck in her shirt. He spares a look towards her stomach, but though she sees the understanding as it comes to settle on his face, she can’t make out anything else. Can’t tell if he’s displeased by the news, or simply indifferent.

What’s worse, she can’t decide which alternative would hurt the most.

And frustration builds then, a small storm. Frustration at his continued silence, suffocating when what she needs is reprieve. “If you don’t say something,” she begins, voice wavering a little, but from anger or tears she isn’t sure. Probably an unfortunate combination, considering how high-strung she is. “I am going to assume the worst. I haven’t slept in two days and I’ve tossed up everything I’ve tried to eat, so you’ll have to excuse me if I’m a little on edge at the moment, but  _please_. Say something.” Anything but that insufferable silence.

That seems to snap him out of his daze – too make him see her, instead of looking like he’s seeing through her. But though he looks at her intently now, she still can’t tell what he’s thinking – if what awaits her are good words, or something that will only confirm the fears that have kept her up for two nights.

Then – quite abruptly, his expression changes. His brows pull down, and there’s a decision in the set of his eyes, still holding hers. And he’s seeing her now, where before his thoughts were far away. She wonders if he might reach for her, but he doesn’t, and it’s a testament to her will that her own keep from wringing together.

Solas huffs, a breath expelled so sharply it almost sounds like a curse, before he turns on his heel; towards the windows, the mountains and the sky beyond. She tracks the movements, suddenly wary. Like walking into battle blindfolded, she has no idea what awaits.

Then, when she’s all but given up on receiving any kind of verbal response, he sighs, and the sound smacks heavily of defeat. Of course, by now she’s come to expect that much; it’s not like she’d been holding her breath for a jubilant cheer. But when he opens his mouth to speak there’s a quality to his voice she’s never heard before, and the words he offers are not those she expects.

“There is something you should know.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter got so many responses, my inbox has been a delight to sift through. I'm so glad so many of you are enjoying it so far! I can only hope you'll enjoy what I've got planned for the continuation.

A silence follows, but it’s hers now, not his.

The way he speaks the words tells her what’s coming is not good. Like he’s setting the stage for a big reveal, something like the dramatic ‘I have a wife’ that she’s found in more than one of Varric’s books, and that’s often the catalyst of a gruesome murder, committed by either jilted mistress or the wife herself. But she knows by the look on his face that there’s more to this revelation than complications of the strictly marital sort. And if there were truly someone else, she’d be surprised; there’s been no mention of anyone, past or present, in the years they’ve known each other.

But she doesn’t feel relief. And it’s…unnerving, seeing him like this, so clearly conflicted, even if he hasn’t actually said anything past his initial and somewhat ominous announcement. But then she has a terrible habit of jumping to the worst conclusions without much evidence, and so she forces herself to be calm, shaking hands lacing together in her lap as she shoves her rising suspicions back down, and manages a surprisingly even, “Okay.”

Solas looks torn between taking a seat and keeping his distance, and Ellana tries not to think about why that is. Keeping her at arm’s length would be beneficial if he were planning on breaking things off, and it’s with a sinking heart that she wonders if that’s what he’s preparing for. Of course, she’d thought it might come to this. Despite having crossed the line between friendship and something far more intimate, they’d never discussed the transition, and what it meant. There’d been kisses, stolen touches. Endearments and small gifts. And then, that one night in the forest that had changed everything, but fear makes her wonder if it hadn’t also irrevocably ruined what they’d had before.

At last, he seems to come to a decision, and moves to take a seat beside her, though she feels it’s more for her sake than his own. She knows all her thoughts must show on her face. Unlike him, she’s never been good at concealing her reactions.

“If I were to tell you,” he begins then, voice still laden with things beyond her understanding, “That something you thought you knew, something you have always held to be true…if I were to tell you it was not so, how would you react?”

It’s – not what she’d expected him to say, if she’d truly expected anything. And if he’s breaking things off, he’s apparently not going to lead with that.

“It would depend on what it was that you told me,” she says at length, unsure of where he’s headed, but in no hurry to rush him. She might not be able to read him, but it’s clear that this is some matter of grave importance. “Does this affect me, personally? Or just my understanding of something?”

He usually delights in her questions, but he appears only wearied by them now. And for once, he seems to be without an immediate answer.

“Solas?”

His hand moves to take hers, a clenched knot in her lap. Gently, he pries them apart, before covering them with his own. His grip is surprisingly insistent, as though for strength, and she can’t tell if it’s for her sake or his, this time.

“Solas, you can tell me,” she tries then. “I promise it won’t change my opinion of you. Whatever it is.”

A rueful smile crosses his face, one she’s seen many times before, but that she’s always chalked up to some quirk of his character – the part of him that dwells in the past, on what used to be. Not the healthiest fixation perhaps, but she’s never been one to deny someone their oddities.

“Oh, da’len,” he says, and it’s been a long time since he’s called her that – so long that she can’t even remember the last time with clarity. She hasn’t been  _da’len_  since those first, tentative steps into their acquaintance, when their discussions about the Dalish’ misconception of history were frequent, and she’d pushed back against his opinions with the wilful refusal better suited someone much younger. Stubborn heads butting together, that’s what they’d been back then. Long before stolen kisses in the Fade and flowers tucked between the pages of books.

But he looks at her now, and all thoughts of old endearments and disagreements flee at the expression that meets hers.

“You should not make promises you cannot keep.”

 

* * *

 

He’s told her a lot of stories in the years she’s known him. Tales of ancient battles, people and deeds that changed history, for better and for worse. The story he tells her now is not that different, aside from the fact that it directly contradicts everything she’d thought she’d known about her own people, her own culture, and that the deed that had changed history had irrevocably sealed the fate of the elves and brought down a whole pantheon of gods and an ageless empire in one fell swoop.

When he’s done, they’re sitting side by side on the sofa, staring at the wall opposite. The sun has dipped below the mountaintops, the dark colours of late evening crawling across the naked sky, leaving a pale dusting of stars. She’s had no mind to light the fireplace, and her quarters are colder than she’d usually be comfortable with, but she barely notices.

“Fen’Harel,” she hears herself say, in a voice that doesn’t sound like her own. And it’s almost too much to believe, an idea too far-fetched to even carry a single shred of truth. The Dread Wolf. The bane of their people. A shadow to snap at the heels of errant children. The betrayer.  _The trickster._

The same kind and good-natured person who’s been her confidante these past two years, her dearest friend ( _lover_ , something whispers, a dark and slithering thought that is slow in settling between the grooves in her heart), sitting beside her now and looking like he’s aged a decade in the span of a few hours.

Solas appears more tired than she’s ever seen him. “Now you know.”

“Fen’Harel,” Ellana repeats, uselessly, as though saying it enough times will somehow help her reconcile the concept with his tangible presence beside her.

It doesn’t.

Knuckles pressed to the bridge of his nose, he closes his eyes. “What is the saying – Dread Wolf take you?”

Oh, she can’t believe he’s making an attempt at levity  _now_ , after what he’s just told her. But quite despite herself, it elicits a laugh, a hitched breath that sounds a tad hysterical. “No, don’t – don’t you dare  _joke_  about that. I’m still–” she shakes her head. “I’m still digesting this.” Head spinning, she’s desperately trying to piece the new information together with what she already knows – the history she’s been raised on, and that’s formed the basis of her entire being.  _Lies. All lies._  “And if you’re – then the others, our gods–”

“Not gods,” he corrects, with a sharpness to his tone that feels at odds with the exhaustion that clings to every word. “They were never gods.”

She breathes. “Right.” Mages, or – something of the sort. But gods or not, they’d been powerful. Immortal. Banished with the creation of the Veil, the Veil that  _he’d_  created. His uncanny knowledge and understanding doesn’t stem just from thorough study and peculiar interest, he was its  _source_. The fall of Elvhenan, the legendary betrayal of the gods – they were consequences of his actions.

“The crime they committed demanded punishment,” Solas explains, voice tinged with an old exhaustion that tells her it’s a thought often visited. “The Veil was – necessary. The alternative…it would have been worse,” he adds, voice roughened with something she recognizes as regret. “I cannot begin to tell you how much.”

Ellana only shakes her head. She doesn’t think she could imagine, even if he told her.

“If it were anyone else telling me this,” she says, unable to voice her acceptance of what he’s put before her, but at the same time unable to deny the truth of it. And it’s not anyone else telling her. It’s him, and there’s no deceit to be found in his words, world-shattering as they are. More so than her own news, which feel suddenly far less shocking.

She presses the heels of her palms against her eyes. So many things to – accept? Unlearn? It’s hard to know where to even begin. A whole life of thinking she knew her own history, only to have it disproven. And on top of everything, he’d confessed his intention of changing it. Changing the world, as though it’s an actual possibility.

She thinks back on old conversations with a slowly settling dread – speculations about what a world without the Veil would be like, and the grief that always accompanied his descriptions of Elvhenan. Not because he’d witnessed its glory in the Fade, but because he’d been part of it, awoken after centuries to find the world he’d known and fought for lost, the elven people still enslaved, to humans and, through their own misconceptions, the would-be-gods he’d fought against. When he’d asked of her thoughts on a world without the Veil, she’d expressed her delight, ignorant of his reasons for asking. She’d thought it only a wistful dream, not that he had his sights set on actually accomplishing such a feat. And she’d not once questioned how he’d known so much about Corypheus’ artefact, or the origins of the Breach, or–

Then, a thought. Cold, where it comes to settle amidst the chaos.

“The Breach,” she says. It’s not a question, though she knows the answer when his expression falls. “The Conclave, that was – that was because of  _you_. The orb Corypheus carries, it was yours. And the anchor. You–” The words come to her slowly, like the realization, and the memory of the rift at the temple ruins, the whole area a graveyard of still-burning flames, and corpses forever caught in macabre images of their dying moments. Only one survivor, but even her death is a certainty, ensured by the mark on her hand.

She feels – dizzy. Like she might faint. No – wait.

_Shit!_

She’s on her feet before she’s finished the thought, pushing off the sofa and scrambling for the chamberpot tucked away by the bed, and emptying the contents of her stomach before she’s even fallen to her knees. Bile pushes up her throat, muscles contracting painfully, and it’s quite easily the most undignified thing she’s ever done in front of someone else, the retching sounds obnoxiously loud in her ears.

It doesn’t last long – she hasn’t had a lot to eat, but the heaving doesn’t cease immediately, and it makes her chest hurt, tears gathering at the corners of her eyes from the strain. When it finally relents, she’s still bent over the chamberpot, arms shaking from holding her weight.

There are hands on her back then, warm even through her shirt as he pulls her away, and she doesn’t know if it’s the incessant retching or the revelation that’s sapped the strength from her limbs, but when he tugs at her she sinks against him without resistance.

Part of her thinks she ought to push him away – the part that’s accepted what he’s told her, who he is, but the offered comfort is such a dearly sought thing, and there are too many thoughts in her head, so when his arms come around her she allows her head to rest against his chest. The smooth bone-pendant hangs, just below her chin, and something about its simple presence drives the truth home with a surety that wipes out the last of her stubborn denial.

“Corypheus was a miscalculation,” Solas says after a lull, the words soft where he tucks them against her ear. “I did not expect him to survive the blast.” He pauses. “His rise to power was through no will of mine. Know that, if anything.”

It’s not an excuse. Just a simple statement of facts. There is regret, but she can’t be sure if it’s for the loss of life suffered at the hands of the Magister, or because Corypheus success was a hindrance to his own. But it explains his willingness to assist the Inquisition; why he’d so readily shared his knowledge of the Breach, when he could have simply remained hidden.

Or were they perhaps the perfect distraction, a clever cloak beneath which his own plans could flourish?

Her fingers curl instinctively towards the mark. It had not been intended for her, she knows that. The events at Adamant were proof enough that her survival was not due the favour of any human prophet. Solas had not accounted for Corypheus, but – he had not accounted for her, either.  _In so many ways._

“Another mistake to fix,” she says. Is that what she is, too?

She can’t make herself ask about the child. He hasn’t brought it up, though she suspects the news was what prompted him to tell her the truth. But the thought that he’d still go along with his plans, even after this…

“I won’t let you,” she says then. Fingers still curled towards her palm, she presses her fists against his chest. “You’re mad if you thought I would.”

“Question my sanity if you wish, but I did not tell you because I imagined you would offer your assistance.”

She lifts her head to look at him. “Then  _why_?” Her voice is a croak, turned raw with anger and disbelief. “Why tell me?”

He shakes his head. “I–” he begins, and for a moment Ellana wonders if he might not know the answer himself. She doesn’t so much as glance towards her stomach, unwilling to ask if he would have kept his secrets if she hadn’t been pregnant.

But he answers her question, when he adds, “It would not have been fair to you, to find out later.”

 _Later_. Because there’s a plan that he’s yet to share to its full extent. A plan that’s been in motion since before they’d met, and one he would have proceeded with, with or without her knowledge. When had he thought to tell her? By his chosen words, he’d obviously imagined she would find out somehow. If he hadn’t planned on her help, why tell her now? Why risk his entire operation, when she might do everything in her power to stop him?

Or perhaps that’s just what he expects.

“What if I find a way?” she asks then. “To bring your people back, to – bring down the Veil, but without destroying this world in the process.”

He shakes his head. “It is impossible–”

“Oh  _fuck_  impossible!” she snaps, pulling away to get a better look at his face, but not entirely out of his grip. His embrace slackens, hands coming to rest on her elbows. “I don’t  _care_. You say this world is a sacrifice you’re willing to make.  _My_  world, with everyone I know, with–” With her, and the child that is now part of her future. She doesn’t dare think about  _their_ , not after what he’s told her. Not when he’s looking at her like he is now. He wears his indecision plainly on his face, a rare show of what he’s truly feeling. He’s never been easier to read, but she can’t find it in herself to be pleased.

Fingertips brush against her side, not quite touching her stomach. But it’s what he doesn’t do that speaks the loudest.

“I should like to be proven wrong,” Solas says at length. She feels the clench of his fingers, still just out of reach. “This was–”

“Not part of your plan?” And she doesn’t bother hiding the bitterness that slips between the words, barbed, ugly things that they are. “Bet you’re regretting that night now.”

“ _Vhenan_ ,” he says, fiercely, and if the word itself had not been telling enough, the look on his face leaves no room for doubt.

Not da’len, now.  _Heart_. No one’s ever called her that, not in the capacity that he does, and he says it with such ease, as though he hasn’t just tipped her entire existence on its head. As though this is a truth that remains, even when he’s disrupted everything else she’s ever thought to be true.

She tries to look for her anger now, in a desperate hope that it will give her answers, or at the very least, chase away the lethargy that seems to have consumed her remaining strength. But despite her prodding, she finds nothing. Only lingering disbelief.

But between that, a surprising conviction.

“I’m keeping it,” she says, looking up to find his eyes. “I didn’t say it earlier, but I’ve decided.”

Solas nods, the gesture heavy with unspoken things. “I suspected as much.”

“Does it change anything?”

He drops his gaze, and for a moment he looks almost as much at a loss as she. The thought evokes a perverse spark of joy.  _You change everything._ He’d told her that, once. Only now does she understand the full meaning behind those words, but in spite of that, she can’t say for sure what it means in the long run. For him. For the child she carries.

“I do not know,” he says then, after a lengthy pause, and at least there is  _that_ , she thinks. Had his answer been immediate, she doesn’t know how she would have reacted.

She draws a breath; steels her resolve. “Then I guess I’ll be the one who has to change it.”

He looks up, honest surprise pushing through the remorse. And she wears her conviction openly, as clear as any other feeling etched on her face. She’s never dealt well with defeatism. That sort of thinking would not have gotten her to where she is. Granted, that sort of thinking would not have gotten her into this situation in the first place, as she would have no doubt forfeited her romantic endeavours at the first sign of reluctance. But she won’t forfeit  _this_. Not this world. Not her child.

Not him, no matter his plans, or his skewed sense of duty.

“But first,” she says. Swallows thickly. “You said you – you said you liberated the slaves. That you offered them freedom.” She meets his gaze, unflinching now. She’d been so proud, the day she’d gotten her  _vallaslin_ , but after everything he’s told her, the thought of them, their meaning – of what he must have thought, when she’d expressed her pride so many times – makes her feel sick again.

She doesn’t reach to touch her face, but his gaze shifts from her eyes to her brow, before trailing down the slope of her nose. She doesn’t have to point for him to know what she’s referring to.

“Could you remove these?”

 

* * *

 

He finds no rest that night.

His desk is cluttered, but he has no mind to tidy it. A stale cup of tea sits, untouched at his elbow, but even without it, sleep seems as elusive as if he’d emptied a whole pot. It’s been hours since he’d left her quarters, at her own behest, but Ellana hasn’t been down to eat, or at least not to his knowledge. Though by her earlier state, it’s likely she has little appetite left, regardless of her condition demanding she see to the need.

Pressing against his brow does little to stem the tide of his thoughts, unforgiving in their relentless onslaught. A day of revelations, certainly. Solas suspects he is not the only one awake, but he won’t intrude when he’s not wanted, even if she’d looked like she could really use the rest. She’d admitted to not having slept much, on account of the discovery of her – pregnancy.

Pregnant. Even after hours with that single word for solitary company, he still cannot fully wrap his head around it.

“You’re usually in bed by this time.”

The voice draws his eyes, to find Dorian leaning on the railing above, but where he expects smugness there’s only honest curiosity.

But he is in no mood for discussion, least of all of his personal affairs. “Sleep eludes me,” he offers, evasively.

“Hmm, yes. That much is obvious. Wouldn’t have anything to do with our fearless leader, and the very serious face she had on this morning, would it?” A small smile curves beneath his trimmed moustache. “I’d ask her myself, but she didn’t come down for dinner. Or after. Rather unusual behaviour, given that she always stops by here on her way to bed.”

“The Inquisitor’s business is her own,” Solas answers, offering a pointed look. “As is mine,” he adds, with a bit more bite.

Dorian only rolls his eyes, entirely unperturbed. “No one’s business is their own in this Keep, but your attempts at keeping yours concealed is admirable, if a waste. It’s like an Antivan tragedy. Everything exciting happens off stage.” He shakes his head, a silent lament of the circumstances, before his expression turns calculating. “Though by the palpable tension, I can only assume she didn’t stop by for a declaration of her affections. Add that to the fact that you were in something of a mood the other day...” He tilts his head. “Did she finally decide she’s had enough? No fun in seducing someone if all you get for your troubles is a book.”

Solas doesn’t deign the observation with an answer, although part of him wonders just how much of their private affairs have been discussed. Too much, no doubt, and the fault is unquestionably his own, for letting it get this far. But Dorian’s good humour tells him the mage doesn’t suspect anything more serious than a lover’s tiff. A small mercy, if such things exist for people like him.

A sigh that borders on the over-dramatic drifts down from above, followed by Dorian pushing away from the railing. “Fine. I’ll just corner her at breakfast. Should have known this was a long shot. Oh well. I’m off to bed. Be mindful of the hour, would you? Insomnia won’t do you any favours at your age.”

Then he’s gone, and silence reigns once more. Even the crows are quiet, perched like dark sentinels in the shadows far above, but he finds no more peace in his solitude than he had under Dorian’s scrutiny. Not when he can’t shake the thought of her from his mind. He thinks of her hands, curled towards her stomach. The determination on her face when she’d announced her intentions of keeping the child.

 _His child._  The thought alone beggars belief, but the truth of its existence…

His resolve teeters. For so long, his path has been clear before him, his duty unquestionable. His heart has been in the past, his thoughts always on the future he would craft from the wreckage of his mistakes. She’d been nothing. Another casualty, wrought by his own misjudgement. And now this. A life brought into existence that belongs to neither world. Another miscalculation? The word tastes – wrong, and the thought does not sit well with him. But it’s no doubt what Ellana imagines he thinks; that the child is simply another mistake, no different than Corypheus. How does he explain that it’s not as simple as that? But it’s impossible to make someone else see, when you’re not certain exactly what you’re trying to show them.

Dragging a hand down his face, he makes to rise from his chair. Stewing alone with his thoughts will yield no results but to further deprive him of his rest, and this is not a matter he can solve on his own. It might not have been part of his plans, but it is part of his future now, there is no denying that. She’d told him, in no uncertain terms, that she would find another way. And impossible as the notion sounds, the temptation to give her a chance is so strong Solas doesn’t think he could deny her if he tried.

He will speak with Ellana in the morning. Tonight, the stillness of the wintry pass will keep him company, as he pleads with the mountains for wisdom.

 

* * *

 

She’s not avoiding him.

Not…purposefully, anyway. If she happens to come down late for breakfast, it’s not so she wouldn’t run into him. And anyway, she’d spent most of the morning emptying an already empty stomach, and so a delay was to be expected.

She makes a note to ask someone to change the chamberpot, unable to so much as glance towards it without feeling the need to bend over it again.

If anyone notices the sudden and inexplicable absence of her  _vallaslin_ , it’s not mentioned. Not to her face, anyway. There are enough elves in Skyhold for word to travel, but humans without any knowledge of Dalish culture and blood writing would not care to look twice, as though their removal is of no great significance. But even the elves pass her by with only gently raised brows, still living their lives as they have, and believing the things they have always believed. No one has come to pull the rug out from under their feet.

She doesn’t know what to do with the information that’s now in her possession. She can’t tell the others – can’t even begin to explain to them, humans and dwarves, the significance of what Solas has told her; of what he plans to do, not when she hasn’t yet figured out what she’s going to do about it. Assisting him is out of the question, so long as his intention remains the destruction of the world to bring back the one that was lost. But there has to be another way, has to be something else that he hasn’t considered. She’s done the impossible, time and time again. Why should this be any different?

Deciding that she needs a walk to clear her head more than she needs a meal, Ellana avoids the main hall, making her way instead towards the stables. There’s companionship to be found amongst the horses, silent though it may be, and Dennet never pries into her affairs. And if anything, it will keep her out of the path of any who might inquire about her absence these past few days.

As it turns out, however, fate has another thing planned for her today. She’s only made it halfway across the courtyard, when Cassandra hails her down.

“Inquisitor.”

Despite her mood, a small smile pushes through, to curve along her lips. “So formal today, Cassandra.”

She receives a glare for her efforts, as the Seeker comes to a stop before her. “I am here on business,” she declares, almost curtly, and her barely-contained irritation says more than enough about the nature of said business.

Ellana suppresses a sigh. “Alright. Who needs me to do what, and when?” Then, remembering her meeting with Josephine, “I should tell you, there’s a banquet–”

“ _Ugh_ , don’t remind me. My presence has been requested as well, as Josephine so kindly informed me. But this will only take a few days. The banquet is not until the end of the week.”

So much for that escape route. “And so this is, what? Negotiations? Ceremonial ribbon cutting?”

The suggestion prompts a mirthless smile. “If only.” And going by the firm press of her mouth, it’s nothing she looks forward to. “Dignitaries from Val Royeaux have requested an escort up the mountain.” There’s a pause, before she adds, “ _With_  the Inquisitor.”

Ellana feels a headache coming on. “What, our soldiers aren’t enough?”

“Evidently not. I tried to explain that we would send only the best of our forces, but they would have nothing less than you. I suspect it is more for appearance’s sake, than any fear for their lives.”

“And let me guess, we can’t say no, or they’ll take offence, and we’ll be the worse for it.” And Josie will have to smooth things over, if possible. Ellana would rather not shove more onto their Ambassador’s plate than is already there.

Cassandra snorts. “They would take offence because the snow is cold. Sadly, Josephine assures me we need their support.”

Ellana’s sigh is heavy, when loosed into the cool air. It’s not how she’d imagined spending her week, but if anything, having something to occupy herself would no doubt take her mind off her current problems, if only for a little while. And being away from Skyhold, if only as far as the foot of the Frostbacks, would give her some space. Space to think. Space to plan.

There’s a nagging thought at the back of her mind, one she would not have usually considered, but it’s off her tongue before she can pull it back. “Are they expecting danger? How is the pass these days?” They have scouts stationed along the route, to provide frequent reports of travelling conditions, but the Frostbacks have never been kind to travellers.

If she suspects any lingering concern for anything other than the safety of the nobles, Cassandra makes no mention of it. But then, Ellana doubts the Seeker would even consider the thought that she might be worried, with her now notorious penchant for getting into dangerous situations. But up and down the Frostbacks can’t be too difficult, surely. There might be the odd bear, or bandit looking to prey on those heading for the Inquisition stronghold, but aside from that, the only danger Ellana can think of short of an avalanche is mind-numbing boredom. The trek is long, and will be longer still escorting people having never made the trip, and at their chosen pace.

No, probably no more dangerous than any other time they’ve made the trip, since their relocation from Haven.

“When do we leave?”

Cassandra appears pleased at her easy acceptance. Or, mildly relieved she doesn’t have to deal with insulted nobles. “We will depart from the gates in an hour. Bull is coming along, and I thought I might ask Varric to accompany us. For all his vocal hatred of uneven ground, his complaints will keep them entertained, at the very least.”

With that, she makes to leave. “And if he is too annoying, I will push him down the slope,” she adds, almost cheerfully, as she heads towards the Keep, leaving Ellana in the courtyard.

She lingers a moment, watching Cassandra ascend the steps. Business as usual, even if nothing feels like it will ever be the same. She can’t even imagine how she’s supposed to break the news of her pregnancy to the others, let alone what she now knows of Solas’ plans.

_Those are problems for another day. One step at a time, or you’ll trip._

She doesn’t reach to touch her stomach, despite the ever-tempting thought, and doesn’t stop by the rotunda as she makes to take the long way around to reach her quarters. She resolves to talk to Solas when she gets back. Hopefully, a little distance will help provide the answers she seeks.

And hopefully, he won’t be too disappointed to find that she’s left without a word.


	4. Chapter 4

“An escort?”

The axe comes down on the chopping block in a swift, clean arc. Fingers uncurling from the haft, Blackwall makes to wipe his brow. “Left earlier this morning, with Seeker Cassandra and some of the others. Some Orlesian nobles asking for a personal escort up the mountain, from what I gathered.” He makes to take another swing. “Would’ve offered my assistance, but I reckon Cassandra would put her foot down. She’s not too happy with me at the moment.”

Solas looks towards the gates, the great maw beyond which looms the white-capped mountain pass. When she’d failed to make an appearance at breakfast he’d foregone his decision to give her space, and having been unable to locate her in her quarters, his trail had led him to the stables. Not a particularly secret haunt, despite what Ellana might think, and one she’s been known to frequent in times of duress. But when asked if she’d been by to see the horses, Blackwall had provided a different answer.

When he turns back, it’s to find Blackwall regarding him curiously. “She didn’t tell you they were going?” By his tone, it’s clear that he finds the notion surprising. It would appear word about their affiliation has reached even to this remote corner of Skyhold.

“No,” Solas says, choosing his words carefully, unwilling to reveal his surprise at her sudden departure, and that the fact that he is surprised bothers him. She doesn’t owe him any explanations, certainly not after the events of last night. But he admits, to himself if no one else, that he’s grown so used to Ellana giving word of her whereabouts that he’d come to expect it, at least to some extent. She always would, before. Even if they were in a hurry, she’d drop by to yell their intended destination through the door to the rotunda.

But perhaps that just might be the case. “Was their departure rushed?”

Blackwall shrugs. “Not from what I could see. She stopped by for a mount. Didn’t seem to be in a hurry.”

Not the answer he’d been hoping for, but Solas only nods, before turning to leave. “Thank you.” And despite his earlier interest, Blackwall doesn’t ask any further questions, only offers a wave as he makes to continue his chopping.

His walk back from the stables draws no more glances than usual, though he’s known for keeping mostly to himself. It’s an hour past noon, and there are quite a few people about, soldiers practicing and visiting merchants arguing with those already stationed, for space to sell their wares and competing prices. With the general noise of the many humans gathered, it’s easy for one elf to slip through the crowd unnoticed, even in a Keep of watchful eyes, and ears in every crack and crevice in the walls.

Of course, her ability to blend in is exactly why he chose her.

The quiet footfalls are easy to discern amidst the cacophony of sounds, steel-on-steel and the muted prayers from passing Chantry sisters, but Solas doesn’t take his eyes off his path, nor slow his pace to accommodate for the new arrival.

“Should I follow?”

The quiet query carries across the space between them, the tone of her voice the maternal lilt of many childhoods. It’s a gentleness at odds with the forward nature of the proposal, but he doesn’t question her reason for asking. His agents know the goings-on of the occupants of Skyhold, including, regretfully, his own, though not through any information he’s divulged himself. And though some know more than others, most are wise enough to at least pretend otherwise.

Roz, he’s long since learned, is either too bold for her own good, or simply too old to care.

She will have been listening to his conversation, and deduced the reason behind his concern. He doesn’t let his thoughts linger long on what else she might know.

“How is the pass?” he asks instead, keeping his voice low. Conversational, if anyone should be listening.

She’s looking in another direction as she speaks. “Weather’s good. Not a cloud in the sky today, but I can’t say for sure about tomorrow. Last report said the path was clear, but things change. The temper of the Frostbacks is a terrible beast, but I spent years in Haven, and I know these mountains. Just say the word.”

Her accent is thick, tell-tale Fereldan, but her appearance is deceptive, white hair and gnarled hands hiding the sharp wit beneath, and though her slightly limping walk hints at a bad hip she’s quicker on her feet than most of his younger agents. Born and raised in the Denerim Alienage, she barely speaks a word of elven, but her dedication to his cause has not faltered since he’d come across her in Haven, by accident more than anything else. With her considerable knowledge of herbalism, she’d become an asset to the Inquisition long before Corypheus’ attack. A fitting ruse beneath which to hide her true skill.

He considers the offer, casting a furtive glance towards the gate. He knows Skyhold, its temper and the heart of the place that keeps it, and the centuries have not made the world any kinder. Even if Ellana has made the journey many times, the mountain pass can be treacherous on a cloudless day. There are countless dangers, all of which she is likely more than aware.

But he doesn’t have to ask himself why her absence should bother him so much now, after operations far more dangerous than a simple escort. Her words seem burned into his mind; the sight of her hands, pressed against her stomach an inescapable image. Losing her now would…

“No,” he says at length, with more conviction than he feels. “That will not be necessary.”

Roz only nods, saying nothing else, and before he’s taken his next step she’s veered off towards the gardens. Spoken words are dangerous, with Nightingale’s spies perched in every shadow, but his own know which paths to take; when to speak and when to keep their mouths shut.

He resolves not to be concerned. The pass has become relatively safe, after the Inquisition’s occupation of Skyhold. There are scouts posted along the route, and Ellana has proven more than capable of seeing to her own survival, even in circumstances far more dire.

Still. That she would leave without so much as a note says more than whatever words she might have prepared, in light of their last conversation.

 

* * *

 

She can’t sleep.

It’s becoming something of a bad habit, Ellana thinks, staring up into the dark canopy of the tent. They’ve made camp at the foot of the mountains, their shelter cold but the reprieve a small blessing after the journey down. But despite her exhaustion, the ground feels too hard beneath her bedroll, and her thoughts too loud for her to find the rest she sorely needs.

She’s spent the past two hours listening to Cassandra’s soft snores, and going over her talk with Solas; has taken every word to examine, picked them apart and pieced them back together, in the hopes that it will somehow help rid her of the fist-sized knot that’s curled up behind her breastbone. She doesn’t reach to touch her face, knowing what she will find if she does. She knew the feel of her  _vallaslin_ , every line and curve of the markings, the slight protrusion barely perceptible but familiar to one who has traced them many times. Without them, her face feels – naked. Too smooth, almost, but the thought of having kept them when knowing their origin…

Varric had asked, over their evening meal. Said something about an elf he knew called Daisy, who’d once told him about blood writing. Ellana’s answers had been evasive, and for a pathological liar, no doubt completely transparent. He hadn’t prodded, reading her reluctance as a sign of a sensitive subject, but his eyes had flickered to her face more than once, his own thoughts concealed with more skill than she could ever claim to possess.

She’s never been good at keeping secrets, but now she’s the keeper of more than she knows what to do with. But if any of her companions suspect she’s holding out on them, they don’t seem inclined to push for answers. And another small mercy is the thought that, however expressive her face might be, there’s no way they could possibly guess their way to what she’s hiding.

It’s too early to feel any physical signs of her pregnancy, save the odd bout of dizziness and nausea, but she traces lazy patterns on her stomach, and for the first time since coming to terms with the news, imagines what it would be like. Belly swollen, like Keeper Deshanna’s daughter when she’d had her first. She’d screamed her head off during the birth, but for her troubles she got her boy, small and soft and quick to laugh. She remembers his bare feet in the grass, and little fingers curled clumsily around the grip of a bow almost as large as himself.

She stops herself before her thoughts can fully latch onto the beckoning question of what hers will be; if she’ll have a son or a daughter, and if small hands will reach for a bow, or if magic will dance between slender fingers. It’s bad luck to get attached to the thought of a child too soon, every expectant mother knows, and she has months to go yet. If she lives that long, that is.

Lifting her hand, Ellana examines the mark, a soft glow of green in the grey shadows of the tent. A death sentence, despite not having given her much trouble since closing the Breach. But it’s a deceptive calm, she knows that. It was never meant for her, and it will eventually kill her. She hadn’t dared ask Solas if there was a way to remove it; the fact that he hasn’t offered to says enough. Either it’s impossible, or he simply isn’t strong enough. He’d briefly mentioned not being at his full strength since his awakening, but with everything else he had told her, she hadn’t given it much thought. But even now, she doesn’t want to think about what he would be like, his full power regained. A terrifying sight, no doubt, if the legends have any shred of truth to them. They might not paint an accurate picture of Fen’Harel, but the simple fact that he’d been able to create the Veil tells her they at least got something right. May the Dread Wolf never catch your scent, or so the saying goes. Cautionary tales do not spring into existence without reason.

 _And it’s too late for that now, isn’t it?_ And she doesn’t want to think about how long she has left; if she’ll live long enough to see her child born, and the world saved. More responsibilities, but at least these are personal. They are hers.

Tucking her hand against her stomach, she hides the mark beneath her blanket. One step at a time, and one day at a time. There’s no use looking back, or to consider what she should have done differently. There’s only one path for her to walk now, and that’s forward, wherever it might lead.

And so she doesn’t think of weeks and months and how many she might have left. Instead she thinks of Keeper Deshanna’s smile as she’d held her grandson for the first time, and it’s with the lost strings of an old lullaby tugging on wearied limbs, that she finally succumbs to sleep.

 

* * *

 

Unfortunately – or rather, the opposite, if considering her current, sleep-deprived state – escorting the Orlesian nobles proves to be exactly as uneventful as she’d expected.

“I spy–”

“Snow.”

“Seeker, I wasn’t even–”

“Mountains.”

“Now, you’ve got to give me time to–”

“Sky, stone, clouds, ice. That should cover it.”

“Is this you telling me you  _don’t_  want to play?”

The voices drift towards her where she rides ahead, the familiar banter an odd comfort despite her smarting backside and the creeping cold, and through her exhaustion Ellana finds a small, if tired smile. She’s starting to feel the effects of neglecting her body’s need of rest and proper nutrition, though she ate a full meal the night before, and again at breakfast before setting out. But even if she’s sated her hunger, her exhaustion is a persistent thing, and the repetitive motion of Myrtle’s easy step has a lulling effect that makes her rock forward in the saddle from time to time, ever on the verge of falling asleep.

Of course, if anyone’s noticed, they’ve been kind enough not to mention it.

She’d gotten an hour of sleep, maybe two, before she’d woken to Cassandra shaking her awake, and announcing that it was time to depart. The Seeker had offered a brief remark that she’d looked tired, but hadn’t pushed the issue, no doubt aware of the futility. There’s no short-cut to Skyhold, no matter how much one could wish to be able to close one’s eyes and be there in a flash. And the journey up has proved as long as she’d feared it would be – much longer than their descent, which had been made at a quick, practiced pace, their horses making easy work of the now familiar terrain. But the Orlesians had demanded they slow down, to the point where Ellana wonders if they’ll make it back before nightfall.

But despite their leisurely pace, nothing out of the ordinary has happened. The weather has been manageable, the sky gone from clear to overcast, but offering only a light dusting of snow. There’s been no signs of any oncoming storm, and the wildlife has kept its distance, which has given her some hours of relative rest, even if they’ve all been spent on horseback. And aside from the occasional request to contribute to the conversation, made by their charges, as her companions have noted that she’s in no mood to chat, she’s been left mostly to her own thoughts.

In retrospect, she’ll blame her easy acceptance of their suspicious lack of trouble on those scant two hours of sleep. She’s not one for cynicism, but certain things are just too good to be true.

She's dozing in her saddle, when the shout tears through the air.

“Bandits!”

She jolts awake, just in time for an arrow to whizz past her ear, and an oath pulls from her throat as she turns to grapple for the staff strapped to the back of her saddle.

“Ellana!”

Having already dismounted, Cassandra is running towards her, sword already drawn. “Protect the others. I will engage.” Then she’s off, towards the archer crouched behind a rock further up the path. “Keep them off my back!”

Myrtle snorts her unease, but remains otherwise calm. She’s one of the few horses in Dennet’s stable entirely unperturbed by Ellana casting spells from the saddle, but staying mounted makes her feel exposed with the now three archers she’s managed to pick out amidst snow and stone. Slipping down from the saddle, she gives the mare a pat as she makes to scout the hillside.

Another arrow shoots past her, but with a precision that tells her it’s not the work of a bandit.

“I count seven in total,” Varric declares, stepping up behind her, and already reloading his crossbow. “Seems underprepared, but I doubt they’d expected more than a few guards. Shit luck, if you ask me.” He nods to the back, where the nobles have gathered their mounts together. “Tiny went to flank the high hats. Seeker giving them hell up ahead, I take it?”

Her grip tightens around her staff, the rush of adrenaline kicking the last vestiges of sleep from her mind. “That leaves us to get creative.”

The dwarf grins. “I like the way you think, Dimples. The one with the most hits buys drinks at the tavern!” Another arrow is loosed, followed by a shout from somewhere in Cassandra’s direction.

Sparks are leaping between her fingers as she takes off at a run, staff raised in a cleaving arc that sends a shot of lightening shrieking through the air, to strike one of the archers stationed along the path. She feels the surge of it in her body, an exhilarating rush of energy, and draws her strength from the familiar sensation as she lets loose another bolt.

As per Varric’s prediction, they make quick work of the bandits, and it’s not been many minutes before the pass lies quiet once more, save the restless whinnying of the nobles’ horses. She’d found a perch on a raised block of ice jutting from the side of the road, to get a better vantage point. It allowed her to avoid the brunt of the fighting, but guilt is quick to rise in place of her relief. How is she supposed to keep leading the Inquisition if she can no longer give as much of herself as she once did? She doesn’t want to stay on the sidelines, a pretty figurehead kept out of harm’s way while her forces fight and die in her name.

But at the same time, she couldn’t forgive herself if something happened to her child because she wilfully put herself in danger. The thought makes her feel sick.  _What was that about not getting too attached, too soon?_

She spots Cassandra further up the path, wiping her blade in the snow. The nobles haven’t moved, and she spots no casualties among them, only a few ruffled feathers. But Varric seems to be smoothing things over, and there’ll be a story told at the tavern later, no doubt. And whatever he’s telling them, it’s perfectly outrageous, at least going by the grin on Bull’s face.

She will have to tell them eventually, Ellana knows. Perhaps when things have progressed a bit further, and there’s no longer any doubt that her condition will yield results. Or alternately, when she’s too far along to hide it.

She lets loose a breath, and rolls her shoulders. Her previous rush of adrenaline having settled, she blinks away the dizziness that she’s grown used to. Thankfully, she doesn’t feel like throwing up now.

“Let us move on.”

Cassandra’s call drags her back, and she makes to step back onto the path, when the once-solid block of ice suddenly gives out beneath her, sending her tumbling down the slope.

Her fall is as sudden as it is beyond her control. She drops her staff in a vain attempt at catching herself, but it’s of little use, and the impact with the ground has her foot twisting at an awkward angle, tearing a shout from her lips. And then she’s rolling, the sleet of ice beneath the snow doing nothing to halt her descent. Snow gets in her mouth, obscures her vision so she can’t tell the ground from the overcast sky, until she finally comes to a stop at the bottom of the slope, a boneless heap and with her head ringing with a hundred Chantry bells.

Long seconds pass, but she doesn’t move, the shock of the fall singing in her bones. She can barely make out the shouts from the path, but from somewhere above her head comes familiar laughter, belly-deep and warm despite the cold snow seeping through her robes.

“You okay, Boss?”

He comes to kneel where she lies, giving her a small nudge. And any other time she would have pushed herself up with a grin, smarting limbs ignored in favour of her pride, but all she can think about now is the beating her body took on the way down – not her twisted ankle or the relentless pounding against her skull that hints at a possible concussion, but the rock that had jabbed into her rib, and the fact that she hadn’t been able to keep from landing on her stomach.

Fear shoves its way past her disorientation, and she knows it must show on her face, from the way his smile falls.

“Bull,” she’s saying then, hands grappling for the harness around his shoulder to pull him down, fingers stiff from the cold but insistent in her sudden desperation. Her voice is a weak, trembling thing, carrying more of her fear than she can put into words. And she doesn’t care that she’d decided she would keep the news to herself for now, not with the urgency that’s taken hold of her. She doesn’t have time to dawdle with the nobles, and she needs someone to know why. She has to get back to Skyhold, to make sure that everything is alright, that she hasn’t–

“Bull, I’m pregnant.”

A single dark eye widens, as far as she’s ever seen it go. And perhaps for the first time ever, she’s caught him so off guard he has no humorous remark to respond with.

“Shit.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Those familiar with my writing habits will not be surprised, I am liable to pull crap like this.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the wait between updates! Life got busy, as it does, but I'll try to keep future updates semi-regular. My goal is one chapter each week, but between work and uni, that plan doesn't always work out. In which case, I thank you for your patience!

Cole is the one who wakes him.

“The ankle, it hurts, but there is another hurt. I can’t feel it, but I fear it. I fear that I can’t feel it.”

Solas rubs at his eyes. A flick of his wrist has a candle sputtering to life, casting a weak ring of light to reflect off the metal of a familiar hat. A lingering lethargy makes his limbs heavy as he pushes himself up to a sitting position. He must have been deeply asleep to not have noticed his approach, though that is something of a feat, even awake. “What is it, Cole?”

He’s shaking his head now, eyes shifting from side to side beneath the wide brim. “Such a long fall, and such a small thing. Small things don’t survive long falls.”

Thoughts shaken loose of sleep’s grip, the words are quick to settle, prompting an inkling at the back of his mind, before something cold drops into the pit of his stomach. “Is she hurt? Cole?”

Cole ducks his head. Listens. “Fear outweighs the pain,” he says, softly. Then, “Marta. She will know, but do I want to know?”

He means to ask again, when the keening whine of the doors to the Keep cuts its singing tune through the night’s quiet, announcing an arrival despite the lateness of the hour. No official visitors would be admitted in the middle of the night – only one person could warrant the guards to open the doors to the hall so late.

He’s on his feet before he’s had the chance to consider his actions, spurred by something he can’t name, and only doubling back to grab his tunic. Bereft of his leggings, the stone is cold beneath the bare soles of his feet, but he has no mind to consider the dishevelled state of his apparel, as he pushes through the door into the main hall, just in time to catch a glimpse of Iron Bull’s broad shoulders as the Qunari makes to cross the room, the long, forceful strides betraying his front of calm, and in his grip–

“Nothing to see here. Move along.”

There are few people gathered. Some of Leliana’s runners, and guards on break between shifts. Some of them make to rise, caught unawares by the arrival, though no one moves to get into his path, their eyes caught and held by the sight of what he’s carrying.

She’s in pain, as much is evident from the sheen of sweat clinging to her brow, and the tight clench of her jaw. Her ankle has been wrapped, but poorly – a hasty field dressing in lieu of a healer, and done quickly so as not to waste time in getting her back to Skyhold.

A fall, Cole had said. The coldness spreads, climbing along his insides; a feeling he hasn’t been acquainted with in some time.

Dread. And isn’t that a fitting fate?

The Qunari makes for the door to her private quarters, two fretting Inquisition agents at his heels now, and with the small commotion caused by his entrance, no one spares Solas a second glance as he moves to follow.

He catches the tail-end of a brusque order as he climbs the steps, Iron Bull’s booming voice drifting down, tinged with impatience, and before he’s ascended the landing one of the agents comes barrelling back down, almost colliding with him in her hurry. A startled apology escapes with a yelp, before she’s off, slamming the door shut behind her. When he clears the top of the steps, it’s to find that she’s been placed on the bed, and aside from her ankle, she appears to be in relatively good shape, enough so that she’s conscious, anyhow. But Cole’s words come slithering back, and Solas knows well that some injuries are more than skin-deep.

Ellana looks up at his approach, her surprise at seeing him evident in the near comical widening of her eyes. No doubt she’d thought he’d be asleep, or that he might keep his distance, though she’d been the one to put it between them, by leaving without so much as a word.

He doesn’t know why the latter still rankles.

“Solas,” she says, and for the life of him, he can’t read anything beyond surprise into the soft exclamation.

He means to speak when the door slams again on the level below, followed by a quick succession of steps up the stone staircase, but it’s not one of their own that ascends the landing. A human woman strides towards them, grey-streaked hair loose about her shoulders and heavy dressing robe dragging along the floor. By the state of her attire alone it’s clear she’s been pulled straight from her bed, but the fact doesn’t seem to faze her.

“Out of my way,” comes the command, as she all but shoves past him. For all that most of the mages in Skyhold tend to tread warily around the Inquisitor, there’s a sense of familiarity to her blunt manner that tells him she’s not just a healer they pulled out of her quarters at random. As is more likely, she was the one to confirm Ellana’s condition.

More people have gathered now – two more agents, one of them Leliana’s, the other one of his, surprisingly. Iron Bull lingers, the press of his brow severe in a way Solas has only seen on few occasions, and it strikes him then, the fact that the Qunari  _knows_.

Words are exchanged by the bed, low on their breaths. He only catches one –  _fell_. It does nothing to settle his slowly rising ire.

As though sensing the eyes of the room on her back, the mage turns her head to survey its occupants, sleep chased from her features to leave a thunderous look. “Clear the room. I can’t concentrate with you louts standing about like you’re waiting for a performance.” When no one moves to leave, instead only exchanging furtive glances, she makes to rise. “I said get!”

That seems to convince them. Leliana’s agents make a quick retreat down the stairs, and his own lingers a moment before following. He doesn’t so much as glance in Solas’ direction. Iron Bull doesn’t budge, but the mage only gives him a withering look, before turning back to Ellana.

“Anything hurting?”

“Other than my pride?” she manages through clenched teeth, as the healer prods at her wrapped ankle. But her brittle smile betrays her attempted levity, and Solas sees the fear that creeps along her features; knows it in the way her eyes keep shifting to her stomach. “My ankle, and, ah – my head. I think I hit a rock on the way down, and–” But whatever she’d been about to say, she doesn’t finish the thought, though going by the look that crosses the healer’s face, she hears the words spoken by the silence.

And his patience – a thing worn thinner and thinner over the past two days, and diluted further by his own conflicting thoughts – snaps.

“What happened?”

The command draws dark eyes to his, and her surprise is tinged by a flicker of awe. She has rarely seen him truly angry, Solas knows.

The healer only offers him a droll glance. “I take it you’re the one, then,” she declares. “You’d have to be, to come charging in half dressed,” she adds under her breath. “At least you’ve got your trousers on.”

He doesn’t ask her to elaborate, well aware what she’s implying. But his expression must convey his lack of patience, because she doesn’t snap at him to move out of the way when he comes to stand by the bed.

"Bandits," Iron Bull is the one who finally explains. “But you can chalk  _that_  up to treacherous scenery,” he adds, nodding towards where Ellana sits, propped against the pillows. “Ice can hold your weight as well as stone, until it doesn’t.”

The painted picture is vivid enough, and the implication twists the dread to something ugly and unforgiving, but he doesn’t have time to consider the meaning behind the feeling – the fact that it now obviously matters, whether or not the child survives.

The child. Hers. His. Theirs. A tumult of words tripping over each other, until he can no longer tell them apart.

“Marta–” Ellana begins, but the mage doesn’t let her finish, hands already reaching for her shirt.

“No talking. Just breathe for me,” she orders, but her tone is softer than the one used to send the agents running. A pale glow wraps about her hand, before she lays it flat against the stretch of exposed stomach.

The pause that follows seems to suck the air from the room, leaving a vacuum, and a laden silence laced with anticipation that drums a restless tune along his veins. He feels like pacing, but roots his heels to the floor, unwilling to give in now, when he’s kept his calm these past few days. His solitude had yielded no answers, only more questions. He’d resolved to wait until her return to make a decision, whatever that would entail. Now that he might not have to…

But he still doesn’t know what to think, and that is, perhaps, telling enough about his feelings for his unborn child.

The soft glow dissipates then, and Marta draws back her hand.

Solas doesn’t know exactly what it is he means to ask, when he opens his mouth. “Is it–?” And it’s still just an  _it,_ so small a thing the reality of its existence is just now fully settling.  _Small things don’t survive long falls._ Cole’s words again, weighing heavily on his heart.

The mage looks towards him, her expression unreadable, before a small smile pulls on one corner of her hard mouth. “See for yourself.” She motions towards Ellana’s bared stomach, as casually as though she’d asked him to come look at a particularly interesting paragraph in a book.

Solas hesitates, searching gaze finding Ellana’s. Knowing the healer’s words for what they are, there’s relief in her expression, and the look she gives him is one of permission, but there’s more to it than that. Curiosity, to see what he’ll do, and something else – something that looks a great deal like fear. Fear that he’ll refuse, or pull away. Not a surprising expectation, given their last conversation, but guilt settles with a damning weight when he comes to accept the realization that this is what he’s made of her trust.

But he’s not beyond catching her off guard, and despite the initial hesitance that clings to the thought of the offer, he moves to take a seat on the bed. The mage retreats to give him the space she’d commandeered, shifting her attention to Ellana’s wrapped ankle.

Solas lifts his hand, then, halted by an awkwardness that feels foreign, with how comfortable he once was stealing touches, “May I?”

The quiet query softens her expression, before a small smile curves along her lips. She tugs her shirt further up, a silent invitation.

The expanse of her stomach is warm beneath his palm. He remembers the feel of it, the softness of her skin over the muscles beneath; the pink, still-healing scar just below her ribcage and the soft curve of her belly. She’d mock-lamented once, that Josephine’s many offerings of frilly cakes and foreign sweets would be the death of her, but the full roundness of her dimpled cheeks had been an enthralling sight, after how she’d looked when he’d kept vigil beside her in Haven, sallow and hollow-cheeked. There are charcoal sketches in his desk drawer, prompted by fleeting thoughts and impressions, long before he knew the whole, uncovered sight of her. Desperately intimate things that he’d hoped to show her one day, but his better judgement had stilled his hand, whenever the thought had arisen.

She looks no different now than she had that night in the glen. There are no outward signs of her condition, and it’s almost hard to believe her pregnancy as fact, when he can find no visible differences on her person. But he is well-versed in healing magic, and knows how to search for signs that something is amiss, fractured bones and ruptured veins; how to prod at every muscle and ligament, the body a map displayed before practised eyes that know to find ever road, every river. He hears the beat of her heart now; the drum of her life’s blood.

Then – he feels it. It’s the barest thing, a flicker not against his hand, but somewhere within.

It steals his breath.

“What is it?”

Her voice draws his attention from where his hand rests, and he lifts his eyes, but it’s not fear he finds in her expression now, but hope. Not the stubborn kind he’s come to know as hers, but a wary, almost fragile shadow of the real thing.

Solas shakes his head. He can’t imagine he could find the words to explain if he looked for them.

He’s vaguely aware of the healer as she makes to depart. “Well. My work here is done, so I’m going back to bed. Get some rest, and try not to put too much weight on that ankle,” she leaves her parting words for Ellana, and Solas feels the weight of her gaze, laden with what she doesn’t say. She cuts past the Qunari on her way out, steps swift and decisive despite the weight of her dressing robe.

“You’ll be okay, Boss,” Iron Bull says then. It’s an observation, not a question, but there’s a veiled warning there too, and one that does not go unnoticed.

Despite it – or perhaps, because of it, Ellana smiles. “Thank you, Bull. I’m sorry for dropping all this on you. I promise I’ll explain everything to you later.”

A quick grin. “You know where to find me.” But before he leaves, he offers a last look at Solas. "Your move,” he adds, meaningfully. Then with a shake of his head, “Something tells me it’s going to be one hell of an endgame.”

And with that he’s gone, heavy footfalls falling on the stairs, before the door swings shut, leaving just the two of them, and the enormity of what sits between them in the quiet.

Stripped of her travelling robes and with her shirt pulled loose of her breeches, there’s an intimacy to the sight of her, sitting on the bed. She’s always impeccably dressed, a fitting front for the post she occupies, and he’s never seen her quite like this – they never got intimate enough for that. The closest was that one night, but he’d been in a hurry, driven by a compulsion that wouldn’t let him savour the sight of her rumpled robes and pleasantly lethargic smile.

But now he’s perched on her bed, his own tunic loose and rumpled and his feet bare, and he can’t help but wonder what it would have been like, if it had been like this from the start.

“I’m sorry,” she says then; expels the words in a breath. “For leaving like that. I was–” She stops, as though unsure of exactly what she’s feeling, but her uncertainty is a strange comfort, and Solas is glad he isn’t the only one struggling to find his footing.

“You were angry,” he finishes for her. “And you do not have to apologize. You had every right to be.”

She’s fiddling with the hem of her shirt, working the fabric between her fingers. A nervous gesture he knows well, but her thoughts are a tumult, and her expression constantly shifting. He wonders idly if she’d be happy to know that for once, reading her is difficult, even for him.

“I still don’t know what to make of all of this,” she admits after a pause. Raising her gaze, he’s glad to find that if anything, she can still bear to look at him. “You, and – this.” Palms pressing against her stomach, it does little to stop them from trembling. “But I was so scared,” she says. “When I fell, I was terrified that I’d–” She doesn’t finish the sentence, but she doesn’t have to. He thinks back on his own thoughts, the heavy dread, and the sudden, desperate wish that the little life should not be lost.

He’s aware that he has not spoken – an unfortunate disadvantage of the introspective mind, and it’s clear that his silence is making her nervous.

But before he can open his mouth to speak, she beats him to it. “Would you – are you –” Her brows pull together, and he knows the stubborn press of her mouth; has seen it countless times, when she’s struggled for words, and when her frustration has gotten the better of her. “Would you rather not be involved?” she asks then, eyes averted, though her voice is clear and even as she speaks.

Solas thinks part of him might have been prepared for the question, but as it is it strikes like a blow, and if he wasn’t already sitting he might have needed to.

She’s still not looking at him, gaze focused intently on her intertwined hands, resting on her stomach. But the tightened lines of her face tells him exactly what answer she’s steeling herself for.

“No,” he says then, after a pause, and finds in the words a truth he doesn’t know what to do with. But when considering his own existence, the life he’s led since his awakening and the one he lived before, he finds it suddenly difficult imagining the future he had foreseen at the end of his path; the solitude of death’s lonely journey. Has she carved such a deep-grooved mark on his soul, that he can no longer imagine that future without her?

But he knows the answer even before the thought has fully taken root.

“You’re still determined to do this,” Ellana says then. “To bring down the Veil.”

It’s a useless statement – he has told her so already that his mind is set, but he can’t blame her for persisting. That she is speaking of it so calmly says a great deal about her nature, and the simple fact that she hasn’t demanded his immediate departure tells him that she’s handling it far better than most would, when presented with the truth.

But he will not lie to her. Not now. “I cannot forsake my duty. The mistakes I have made–”

The breath that escapes her is too mirthless to be a laugh, but just derisive enough to make his hackles rise. He can’t dictate her understanding of his reasons, but there’s a need now, pushing up his chest – a need to make her understand  _this_ , if nothing else.

When he makes to take her hands, covering them both where they lie, a protective weight on her stomach, the gesture is startling enough to snap her gaze back to his. And when he speaks his voice is no longer calm, but fierce with honest feeling.

“I do not count this amongst them.”

He is not surprised at how easily the admission comes to him – not anymore. And she might be stubborn to a fault, but he can tell by the way her expression softens that she believes him. Though that is, Solas thinks wryly, more than he deserves.

“I just need a chance,” she tells him, chin lifted a little now as she looks at him. There are dark and tired shadows beneath her eyes, but she bears her exhaustion admirably, considering the circumstances. He wonders if he’ll ever cease to be amazed by her continued refusal to back down. “I’m not giving up on you, Solas.”

His smile is rueful. “I know, vhenan.” But he doesn’t know whether to feel relief or disappointment. Would it have been easier if she’d simply relented?

A heartbeat passes. Two. He counts them where his hand is curved over hers; feels her fierce life as it manifests itself. Inconceivable, the whole of her, and her continued survival, despite everything. He allows his eyes to rest on the soft glow of the anchor, partly hidden beneath her hands. Another thing that wasn’t part of his plan, the consequence of which she has to bear the weight (and the double meaning of that is not lost on him, cruel though the irony is). She has proved resilient so far, but the power it yields was never meant for a mortal. He will have to find a way to remove it, lest he lose them both.

The realization is jarring, how easily he’d applied  _them_  to his line of thought, and he wonders what it means, to have accepted his fate as it presents itself before him now, that he has infinitely more to lose than just his heart. That, at least, he could have borne, but this…

Ellana stifles a yawn, bringing him out of his thoughts, and back to the present.

“You should rest.”

He makes to draw his hand back, when she stops him, quick fingers catching his, to keep him from rising from the bed. “Will you stay?” she asks, and is quick to add, “Just until I fall asleep?”

Solas settles back down. “If you wish.” He doesn’t question her asking or what it implies. With everything that has happened, he’s had few thoughts to spare to what they are, but the question comes to him now, sitting at her bedside, her hand still in his and his child, tangible and real beneath the steady beat of her heart. They will never be what they were, and despite having only days before been preparing to end their affair completely, he can’t help the thought that they might be something else yet.

It doesn’t take long for her to succumb to her exhaustion, heavy-lidded eyes slipping shut and muscles taut with stress going slack. Her breathing evens out, and he watches the gentle movement, strangely taken by the sight. If he’d considered it a small marvel that she’d allow him into her presence after everything he’s told her, its’s almost hard to believe that she could still be so at ease so as to let her guard down enough to fall asleep around him. He could chalk it up to her simply being too tired to stay awake, but he doesn’t. She had asked him to stay.

A strange urge makes his fingers twitch, but he hesitates. It feels a private intrusion, but something spurs him on – the inquisitive mind that’s been his for as long as he’s drawn breath, and with a care not to rouse her, Solas makes to rest his hand against her stomach.

He’d imagined his wonderment would not be quite as forceful a second time, but he’s proven wrong, as he so often is when it comes to her, her very spirit a living defiance, touching upon every aspect of his life and changing the whole of it, until he forgets all that he is, and remembers only what he so desperately wishes he could be.

“They are over there. She is here.  _You_  are here.”

The words are quietly spoken, no doubt so as not to wake her, though with how tired she was, he doubts Cole could have managed, even speaking normally.

Solas sighs, but doesn’t remove his hand. “They are irreconcilable. I cannot choose both.”

“You can choose one,” Cole says, as though the matter is that simple. And perhaps it is, when put that way. One world over the other. Hadn’t he already made that choice? “You can choose the one you want. And you want this. You want another legacy. Death is not the only thing you are good for.”

“Cole–”

“There is life, now. It’s yours, and it’s hers. It is both, old and new, past and present. You want it. Little hands, little feet. Laughter, free and unburdened. Dimples in their cheeks. Maybe your eyes, maybe hers, maybe something else, a little of both.” A pause, then, “She thinks you might want it, but she doesn’t want to hope. Maybe if I told her–”

“No,” Solas says, gently but urgently. “I would have her take me at my word.”

Cole seems to consider that. “Her trust, broken like everything else. How to fix this, how to choose?” He pauses. Thinks.  _Sees_. “There is only death on this journey, but there are other paths to walk.”

Solas says nothing, and he doesn’t need to look up to know that Cole has gone, but the words remain in his wake. And despite himself, he prods at the thoughts that had prompted them; idle musings of round, freckled cheeks and large, dark eyes. Perhaps her charming overbite. Clever little hands itching to touch everything in their path, and questions tripping over a clumsy tongue, faster than he can answer them. A lost language reclaimed, and a child’s rapid speech a seamless blend of tongues, new and old.

_There are other paths to walk._

Lost to his ponderings, the night drags on. Beside him Ellana sleeps, undisturbed and unwearied despite the weight of his thoughts, and Solas sits for a good while longer than he’d planned.

 

* * *

 

It’s still dark when she starts awake, to find a shadow by the bed.

Normally she’d be reaching for the dagger beneath her pillow, but the wide-brimmed hat is unmistakable, even in the grey darkness.

“Cole?”

He doesn’t answer at first, and Ellana thinks he might not say anything at all when he tilts his head, as he’s wont to do when listening for things no one else can hear.

“It’s a spark,” he says then, voice quietly marvelling. “I can feel it.”

Her breath catches. It expands behind her breast, until it feels too much for her to contain. She’s no healer, and pressing her hand against her stomach gives her nothing – not a single shiver of proof for herself, but the expression on Solas’ face comes back to her, clear even amidst the confusing turmoil of her thoughts.

When she looks up, he’s gone. The room is a host of grey shadows, and she is alone.

Well. Not completely alone.

The events of the past few days are plentiful, and more than enough to keep her awake along with her still-smarting limbs, but she spares no thought to either as sleep drags her back under, smiling into her pillow.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This got longer than expected, but I hope you enjoy!

She’s limping down the front steps the next morning, trying her best not to draw attention to herself. A considerable feat, when everyone knows her face, and since she’s certain, at least by the trailing looks, that news of her arrival in the middle of the night has had time to spread. But though they might know the _when_ and the _how_ , Ellana doubts they know much more than that. There are few secrets in Skyhold, but this is one she hopes to keep for some time yet.

A small pocket of peace in an ever-bustling Keep, the gardens offer a welcome respite from the general noise of the courtyard at mid-morning, and her breathing comes easier amidst the curling vines and the dark-soiled beds of herbs. One of the resident herbalists makes note of her approach, a kindly if frail-looking elf who’s been with them since Haven, turning towards her with a smile.

“How can I help you, Inquisitor?”

The unassuming smile makes something loosen behind her breast. She’s unusually tense these days, as uncomfortable at the heart of the scrutiny of strangers as she’d been those first few weeks in Haven. But it’s far too early for anyone to tell by the look of her alone, and she’d brought her thickest coat, just to be sure. For anyone to know, they’d have to have overheard something.

She tries not to think too much about that, focusing her attention instead to the herbalist. “Roz, right?”

A nod, respectful but not overdone. “That’s right, my lady.”

“I, ah, was wondering if you had any good remedies for an upset stomach. Ginger, or something like it.” Her own knowledge of herbs is minimal at best, for all her Keeper’s attempts at instilling some kind of interest in the subject. But she’d never been one for poisons and poultices; she’d found her joy in the craft; bow-making and whittling, and spells etched into staffs and talismans, the wood pliable beneath quick and clever fingers.

But she remembers some things, and at her mention, Roz’s expressions turns understanding. Almost startlingly so. “Nausea?”

Ellana nods, and tries to keep her face carefully blank. But Roz doesn’t ask any more questions, only moves to talk to the Chantry sister hunched over and digging in one of the beds, leaving Ellana rocking nervously on her heels. For a split second she considers bolting, feeling like she’s revealed far too much just by asking, but she isn’t given the chance when Roz returns with a small bundle in her hands, wrapped in white linen.

Some of her unease dissipates – until the herbalist opens her mouth. “Here. Have the cook make you a tea in the morning – or the evening, if that’s better. They call it morning sickness, but it’s not always so literal.”

Fear is a cold stone in her gut. “I’m sorry?”

But once again, Roz only smiles. “Congratulations, my lady,” she offers, before turning back to the herb garden once more, a slight limp in her step.

Ellana only hesitates a moment before following, nearly tripping over her feet in her hurry. “Um – Roz?” Making sure they’re out of earshot of anyone listening, she lowers her voice. “Ha,” she breathes. “I’d really appreciate it if you kept this to yourself?” Denying it is out of the question, if she’d been able to guess her way to it with so little trouble, but perhaps she can appeal to her kindness, if nothing else.

To her relief, Roz only chuckles. “Don’t worry, this old heart is good at keeping secrets.” She means for the accompanying wink to be assuring, Ellana knows, and tries to feel it. “Dry toast also helps,” she adds then, almost as an afterthought. “Some radicals would suggest magic for every conceivable ailment, but I’ve found the simplest remedies are usually the best.”

Fingers curling around the wrapped parcel, Ellana tries for a smile, in hopes of not letting on just how much the casual acknowledgement of her pregnancy has thrown her for a loop. “Thank you.”

Roz waves off her gratitude with another smile as she makes her way back into the gardens, cheerfully and as though nothing out of the ordinary has occurred. Ellana lingers a moment, before turning stiffly on her heel, and resolving not to waste too much effort worrying about wagging tongues. There are far worse souls in Skyhold who could know her secret, than a kindly old herbalist.

Tucking the package into her coat, she makes to cut across the courtyard, hoping her brisk pace will deter anyone looking to hail her down for a chat. Too high-strung to manage a convincing face of ‘I’m the personification of calm, can’t you tell?’, she goes in search of the one person she knows won’t offer judgement.

The tavern is a quiet murmur of noise when she walks in, washing over her in a familiar cacophony, and offering a longed-for respite from her own thoughts. The quiet of the stables is good for contemplation, but the _Herald’s Rest_ offers – well, a different sort of rest, for an overburdened mind.

He catches sight of her long before she’s crossed the room, and she’s surprised at the relief she feels at his smile, curving wide as ever. For all her concerns about people knowing of her condition, Ellana feels no trepidation in Bull’s presence. And he doesn’t look at her any differently, as he raises his empty glass in greeting.

“Hey, Boss.”

She makes to take a seat, sinking against the chair with a sigh. She waves to the barkeep for a refill for Bull, but shakes her head when he comes over with two glasses. “A little too early for me,” she lies and hopes it’s convincing, but Cabot doesn’t seem to find anything amiss with the refusal.

Turning her eyes back to Bull finds him watching her, curiosity bright in his lone, dark eye. “How are you holding up?” he asks.

No need to keep up appearances here, thank the Creators. And she tries not to think too long about the fact that she’s praying to false gods. _It’s too early in the morning for an existential crisis._ “As well as can be expected,” she answers honestly.

He snorts into his mug. “Yeah. That’s what I thought.”

She hesitates, wondering how to go about the conversation. He’s usually painfully blunt, but something tells her she’s going to have the take the lead with this. “You can ask, you know,” she tells him, after a pause. “I owe you that much, after springing it on you like that.”

Settling the weight of his gaze on her, he seems to consider the offer. Then, “You gonna keep it?”

It’s a simple enough question, but then Bull doesn’t know enough about the situation – Evanuris and Fen’Harel and the potential destruction of the world – to ask the complicated ones.

Ellana nods. “I haven’t got it all figured out yet. We still have to defeat Corypheus, and I have to lead the Inquisition. I’m just…going to have to do it with a very large belly. And eventually a child.” She laughs, a breathless, slightly marvelling sound. “Even saying it out loud it’s hard to believe.”

Bull says nothing to that. Sparing him a sidelong look, Ellana wonders if he’s keeping his opinion to himself for her sake. “You don’t have to hold back, Bull,” she says then. “I know this isn’t how they do it under the Qun.”

His quick grin is genuine, but holds more than his words. “Yeah, but I wouldn’t expect you to follow that line of thinking.” He shrugs. “Always did figure you’d end up with a brat or two, though. Elves like that, right? Lotsa kids? Or maybe I’m thinking of humans. Shit, but it’s hard to tell you apart sometimes.”

Ellana finds a smile. “I think we all like to procreate extensively. It just doesn’t always happen at the most opportune of moments.”

“That’s one way of putting it,” he laughs, and despite the weight of the words, her own mirth swells, a light and easy thing.

“So,” Bull says then, seeming to have grown a bit more comfortable with the subject. Or maybe it’s just the drink that’s taken the edge off. “How's Solas handling all this? Looked a little tense last night, but then he always looks like he’s got a stick shoved up his–”

“Bull.”

Another grin, followed by another swig of his mug, before his expression turns serious. “He still treating you right?”

Her answer comes without hesitation. “He is.” No matter how much has changed between them, that has not. “And to answer your question, he’s handling it…better than I expected.” Of course, she doesn’t tell Bull that Solas’ reaction had been so far beyond her expectations, she’s still reeling from it. And better to leave out the part about tearing down the Veil, knowing Bull's stance on the Fade in general.

“Keeps a level head,” he agrees. “Some guys would be halfway to Rivain by now.”

Her smile feels brittle, but she tries to soften it. “I guess I should count myself lucky.”

He snorts. “That’s some dark luck you’ve got there, Boss. No offence.”

 _Oh, Bull. You have no idea._ “None taken.”

He takes a moment to consider the contents of his mug, before lifting his eyes back to hers. “Many know about it yet?”

She does a count. “Well it’s you, and Solas. Cole, but then that’s no surprise. Marta – she’s one of the mages – and I think one of the herbalists might have figured it out.” A handful of people, and she’s only known about it herself for less than a week. “I’m going to have to tell everyone at some point,” she adds. “But for now I’d like to keep it between as few people as possible.”

Bull nods. “Secret’s safe with me, Boss,” he assures her. Not that she’d expected anything else. And it might be a small thing, but her life has been a series of big revelations lately, his simple acceptance of fact is desperately welcome. He’s still not treating her any differently, and aside from not having a mug cooling between her own fingers, it’s almost like it’s always been with them. Drinks to make hard subjects easier to swallow.

Well. Almost.

“You know, I could _really_ use a glass right now,” she admits. “I haven’t been this tense since Haven.”

He gives her a look. “Mind if I suggest an alternative?”

A dubious proposition, if she knows Bull at all, but she’s enjoying herself – has let her shoulders down in his company, when it’s been so hard to relax lately. "What have you got, Bull?” Of course, knowing his favoured way of dealing with stress, she’s half-expecting the words before he speaks them, his grin wide and wicked as it curves above the rim of his glass.

"Feel like hitting something?”

 

* * *

 

It’s with a promise to take him up on his offer later that she finds herself meandering back towards the Keep around late afternoon, accompanied by the niggling feeling that she’s forgotten something. Unable to figure out what, she spares half a thought to heading straight for her quarters, if only to avoid whoever might be looking for her, as is often the case, but passing down the main hall has her hesitating, before making a beeline towards the rotunda.

When she enters it’s to find him bent over his desk, perusing an open book with that intense academic focus that’s always fascinated her so, and so caught up in the activity that he doesn’t even lift his gaze at her approach, likely too engrossed to notice.

Determined to quell the awkwardness that’s taken root between them, Ellana opts for levity. “Good book?”

The question startles him – so much so that he nearly tips the cup of tea sitting on the edge of the desk in his attempt to hide the book from sight, slamming it shut and covering it with the desk’s various odds and ends. But seeing that it’s her makes his shoulders relax somewhat, though the whole spectacle has left her staring, wide-eyed and more than a little amused. “Should I take that as a no?”

Her good humour prompts a small smile, as Solas wordlessly makes to move the papers he’d hastily pulled to cover the book, allowing her a glance at what he’d been reading. Gaze skimming over the leather-bound volume, her eyes trace the inscription on the spine.

_'A Study of Magic and the Possible Effects on the Foetus’_

“Oh,” she says, caught by surprise. Out of everything she’d thought might have held his attention so, this was not it, though part of her wonders why she is at all surprised – of course an inquisitive mind like his would take the academic approach.

Another part of her, the one prone to worry and worst-case-scenarios, wonders if his interest has sprung from simple curiosity, or from concern.

Keenly aware of the eyes and ears on the levels above, Ellana roots around for a response that doesn’t immediately announce the news of her condition to the rest of the Keep. But she’s no Orlesian, and speaking around a subject does not come easy. “So you’re, um – researching. The, ah, the thing.”

She thinks she might spot a flicker of humour on her behalf in his eyes, but it doesn’t linger long. “Yes.”

Honest curiosity spurs her on now. “Have you found anything?” And she feels a twinge of guilt – the thought hadn’t even crossed her mind, that using magic could somehow affect the child in the womb. That Solas had considered it a subject worth investigating makes worry roil in her gut.

But, “Nothing of note,” he says. Then, no doubt reading her expression for what it is, “Though I do not think there is any cause for concern.”

She wants to feel relief, but another thought stops her from being too quick to accept his assurances. “And the anchor?”

His silence says enough. “I am – not certain.”

Fingers drumming against her thigh, Ellana tries not to let her mind wander. The surge of magic through her veins has always been a source of exhilaration, and Marta had not found anything amiss, even after their encounter with the bandits. But now she thinks of its destructive power – hers is not a healing magic, but one that rends and tears, thunder and molten fire – and her child. Too small and too fragile to protect itself, what has she been putting it through with her carelessness?

“You are worried.”

The calm observation makes her look up, to find Solas watching, brow heavy with thoughts she can’t read. “And you’re not?” She spares a meaningful glance towards the book.

“I am simply taking precautions,” is his easy answer, but she can’t help but hear the regret, though he tries to hide it.

 _Too late for that_ , but she doesn’t say it. It seems wrong, somehow. Instead she tries to focus on the fact that he’s obviously invested enough to be concerned. He wouldn’t bother with worry if he was inevitably set on letting them both die, surely?

It’s not quite hope that she feels, but something close. She doesn’t dare let it grow any stronger. Not yet.

“What are you two talking about?”

The new voice makes her start, drawing her gaze upwards to Dorian, peering down at them from behind the railing.

“Nothing,” Ellana lies, at the same time that Solas says, “The Fade.”

A dark brow quirks. “At least get your stories straight before you lie.” His gaze shifts to Ellana then, a cat’s clever mischief in the curl of his mouth. “It’s been a few days since I last saw you in here,” comes the laden observation.

She tries not to squirm. She’s never been good at lying, particularly under duress. “I’ve been busy.”

“So I heard. Must have been an eventful jaunt up and down the mountain.” But his expression shifts then, genuine concern bleeding through his humour. “How is the ankle?”

“Still attached,” she quips, growing bolder when it becomes clear he doesn’t know the real reason she’d sent for a healer upon her arrival. Let him think it was only a severe break. She resolves to exaggerate her limp a little when she leaves.

Dorian nods, but doesn’t look entirely convinced. And she knows that fiercely intelligent mind won’t need many clues before putting the pieces together, but she’s searching for an excuse to get out from under his scrutiny, when Solas beats her to the punch.

“Care for a walk?” And he’s already moving before she has the chance to breathe _yes_ and pick up her heels to follow. Dorian doesn’t call after them, but she doubts he’s dropped his interest in the subject entirely.

The wind on the battlements is a cold and softly keening howl, ruffling her hair and cutting through the wool lining of her coat, but she welcomes the privacy offered by the looming walls of the Keep, and the vastness of the mountain pass below. The last time they’d walked here, she’d carried heavy news, but though she feels free of it now, she has found other worries to occupy her thoughts.

She trails at his side, catching glances at his loping pace, and finally seeing the countless years resting behind the weight of his steps. His eyes are on the mountains, and she wonders what he sees – a world fully and truly broken beyond repair? Is it too late to make him see it as something else – something with the potential for further growth; old knowledge reclaimed, and made to better the lives of the elves that he’d fought so hard to save?

So many questions to ask him, but Solas is the one who makes to speak. “When will you be leaving?”

Ellana blinks. “Leaving?”

He turns towards her, a bemused expression replacing the pensive pull of his brow. “To Nevarra?”

“Nev – Oh! The banquet.” Of course, that’s what she’d forgotten. It’s a small wonder Josephine hasn’t hunted her down yet, to make sure she’s gotten her dress uniform fitted.

A small smile, almost sad. “You have had other things on your mind.”

Her laugh is not quite humorous. “Something of an understatement, that.”

Silence follows at the heels of her remark. The scene is familiar – the wind’s sad lament, and the two of them standing apart, a vast world sitting in the space between them. Solas seems to want for words – a small wonder, and one she would have teased him for, if she’d been in a teasing mood.

“You will be careful?” he asks then.

Something leaps. She thinks it might have been her heart. But in an attempt to salvage the remains of their once easy repartee, Ellana tries for a light-hearted response. “Worried I can’t handle a party of stuffy nobles and dragonslayers?”

The look he gives her could almost be called dry, if it weren’t for the underlying concern he isn’t bothering to conceal. “It is a long journey. Possibly dangerous.”

Once more, Ellana tries not to feel guilty about being surprised that he’s worried. She knows he cares of her, of course she does, but after discovering just who he is…attaching those kinds of feelings to Fen’Harel has been – difficult. To say the least.

But he is still Solas. To her, he has always been just _Solas_. And Solas had told her himself, of the depth of his feelings. _Ar lath ma, vhenan_ , and that had been no trickery; no lie. She refuses to believe so.

“Yes, well. I’ve come to learn that most things are dangerous, one way or another. That I’m pregnant doesn’t change the fact that I have duties to attend to.” The word tastes foul in her mouth, and she tries not to let it show. So much resting on her shoulders. So much resting on _his_. Are their stances really so conflicting, there is no middle ground?

Going by the look on his face, Solas is thinking along the same lines, but all he says is, “A fair point.”

Awkward – so terribly, excruciatingly _awkward_. Some reckless part of her wants to let loose a scream, just to see if it can chase away the tension that makes every word spoken between them seem heavy and bumbling. Is this how it will be between them now? Always on edge around each other, treading warily. She knows it will never be quite what it was, but she wants it back, the comfort they’d once found in each other’s company.The companionable silence. The stolen touches. She wants that back, ancient gods and unplanned pregnancy be damned.

She wants, she realizes, the urge as sudden as it is fierce, to kiss him.

Gazing out across the mountain pass, Solas seems oblivious to the path of her thoughts. It’s probably for the best, with how precarious their current situation is.

“I’ll be careful,” she assures him, not knowing what else to say. And she doesn’t know what it is that makes her blurt, “And you’ll be here? You’re not–” But she can’t make herself finish the thought, when it’s torn itself from her throat.

His expression softens. “I promised I would see Corypheus defeated, did I not?”

Her heart sinks, but she manages a nod. She doesn’t tell him about the thoughts she’d once entertained, that if they were both alive when everything was over, she’d imagined asking to join him, wherever he’d planned to go. Of course, that had been before she’d known what he was planning on doing.

But she wants to ask him now, if he still plans on leaving when it’s over – if he’ll give her the chance she’d asked for, to find another way, or to find some way to change his mind. He’d waited centuries, surely he could grant her this? Or would he simply wait until the end of her natural life, before making good of his plans?

Could she live with herself, if that were the case?

 _No_ , the answer comes, without hesitation. This is her world – it will be their child’s world, and the world of his or her children. It will stand after her death, as it has stood for centuries, she’ll make sure of it. She will have to make him see that there are other ways to go about fixing a mistake. Just because it doesn’t yield the same life it once did, doesn’t meant the soil is ruined.

Solas is looking at her now, and she makes an idle note that they’ve moved closer. His doing, or–? And the look on his face is one she recognizes; that severe furrow of his brow, and the press of his mouth. _Indecision_.

Her arm bumps against his, making her jolt, and she doesn’t know what to do with her hands. And he’s still looking at her, holding her gaze. Her breath feels suddenly light in her chest, and for a staggering moment, she thinks he might reach to kiss her.

Then his expression changes – turns solemn, though still familiar. _Regret_. “It is cold,” he says, drawing away. She feels the change like a tether snapping. “We should go back inside.”

Ellana swallows thickly, and hopes her own face doesn’t reveal everything she’d been thinking, but fearing that it does. “Y-Yeah.”

Solas offers a half-smile, before turning to walk towards the tower. Her hands twitch, hanging useless against her sides, limp and heavy with her own indecisiveness. She feels like she might scream again, but tucks the urge away, and as she moves to follow, tries not to let on how fiercely her disappointment swells within her.

 

* * *

 

They leave the next day at the break of dawn, the snow-capped Frostbacks dusted with pink and the air brittle with frost. Sleep still sits in the eyes of her companions, exhaustion hard and dark in Cassandra’s face, and Dorian exaggerates his yawns as Dennet helps them saddle the horses. Solas is there to see her off – another surprise, but one she tries her best to hide. He says little, but offers her a safe journey, and when she risks a glance back as they pass through the gates, it’s to find him lingering.

On account of her _incident_ – an event exaggerated to the point Ellana is sure the rumour is that her foot was about to fall off – Josephine had managed to wrangle their hosts into postponing the banquet, giving them a few extra days to travel. It doesn’t make the journey any shorter, however, and the voyage across the Waking Sea does little to improve her body’s seemingly relentless need to regurgitate everything she consumes. But if anything, seasickness proves a good excuse to being draped over the ship’s railing every morning.

Roz’s herbal concoction has helped some, and when questioned she’d passed it off as a simple remedy for nausea. And if anyone has found anything out of the ordinary with her morning acrobatics, they haven’t mentioned it, though Dorian has been sneaking glances, and Josephine wears an expression of permanent concern, likely because Ellana has neglected to explain what she’d needed the healer for, the time she’d asked. Only Cassandra seems to have other primary concerns, being the impending encounter with people she’s described as “the worst her homeland has to offer”.

As it stands, they are a tired company disembarking on the Cumberland docks late afternoon the day before the festivities. The city is just about what she expects, after Cassandra’s descriptions. Not much different from the other cities she’s visited, if lacking the over-the-top draperies and the absurd gold plaques of Val Royeaux. But the cobbled streets and the lavish courtyards speak of wealth, and it’s a teeming tumult of people of all races. Josephine tries to explain the finer points of the Nevarran monarchy, but Ellana only takes in bits and pieces – she’s been ill almost every morning since setting out from Skyhold, and tired from the added stress of a long journey. She could have slept for a week, but there’s little rest to be had, with the people flocking to catch the Inquisitor’s arrival.

Much like the city itself, the banquet brings few surprises, and goes about as well as Ellana had hoped. There’s food, and wine to wash down the politics. Cassandra pretends not to know anyone, and Dorian amuses himself discussing the finer points of necromancy, by egging on the present company to the point where no one seems inclined to remember they’ve got the Inquisitor at their table. But Ellana is grateful, if uncertain if his intentions are to give her a break from the onslaught of questions, or just to ruffle some feathers because he can. As a contrast, Josephine is the picture of diplomacy, and a blessed buffer to the barbed tongues of the nobles present.

She tries to eat, but doesn’t touch her wine. They’ll call her disrespectful once she’s out of earshot, no doubt, but her stomach has been rebelling against most foods, and it’s by a small miracle that she manages to force down a few paltry vegetables. She doesn’t even dare touch the meat, for fear it’s going to come charging back up with a vengeance. _That_ story would precede them back to Skyhold, and no doubt send the rumour mill churning out of control. It’s the last thing she needs, on top of everything else.

When the day of their departure finally comes, heralding the start of the long journey back, but also release from the inquiring gazes in the periphery of the Nevarran court, it’s after a night spent tossing and turning. But she’s glad to be going home, and relieved it’s without having made a spectacle of herself.

Of course, she should have known it wasn’t going to be that easy.

They’re passing through the city on their way to the docks when she smells it – cooking meat, from a street vendor some paces down the narrow, cobbled path, curving towards one of the many public squares. It seeps into her nose, not an unpleasant smell, but her stomach roils, muscles contracting violently, and–

“Oh no.”

She’s veered off into the nearest alley before Cassandra can ask what’s wrong, stumbling against the wall with her hand clamped over her mouth, but it does little to stem the sudden onslaught of nausea, and so she relents, emptying her stomach next to a pile of crates stacked high against the building.

She’s wiping her mouth with the sleeve of her coat, when she becomes aware that she has company. And when she turns, it’s to find Cassandra regarding her with a curiously blank expression.

“It’s nothing,” Ellana tries, pulling a reassuring smile from some long-forgotten reserve of panicked responses. “I’m just–”

“You barely touched your food yesterday,” Cassandra says. It’s not an accusation. In fact, it sounds more like an observation, the kind one would make when on the verge of a discovery. “And you did not take so much as a sip of wine.”

Ellana swallows. “Really, it’s nothing, just a stomach bug–”

“Bull carried you up the pass, when all you had was a twisted ankle. I thought it seemed excessive, since you once went two days without telling us you had a broken rib.”

An excuse is forming on her tongue, but she can’t shape the sounds into words, leaving her gaping. Of course Cassandra would remember _that_ , prowling through the Emprise to reach that blasted keep, snow in her boots and every other crevice of her person, and she’d been too stubborn to mention her smarting ribs until they’d arrived, only to discover that it was more than just a simple sprain.

Realization is slow in fully settling, but when it does it slackens the hard lines of her face, lifting her brows in an expression of outright disbelief.

Her mouth works. “You are not–”

“Cassandra–”

“You are, aren’t you?”

Ellana’s mouth snaps shut, but she knows the answer must clear on her face. It’s too late to deny it, and there’s no talking herself out of this now, she knows, as thunder crashes across the Seeker’s expression.

“Yeah,” she relents.

Cassandra draws a breath – a short, sharp sound. Then, with a calm that would be reassuring if it were anyone else, declares,

“I am going to kill him.” 


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Had some extra time to write this weekend, so here's another chapter for you!

The words fall with the weight of a promise, punctuated by the Seeker’s deadpan expression. Cassandra looks as serious as Ellana has ever seen her, and she probably would have found the sight terribly amusing, if she wasn’t on the receiving end.

“Though I’m sure I’d enjoy the sight of you duelling Solas for my honour,” she says, hoping to lighten the mood, if nothing else, “No one is killing anyone.”

Dark brows furrow, a multitude of expressions passing over her features. Unlike Solas, whose face is so carefully expressionless when he wants it do be, Ellana doubts Cassandra could have kept her thoughts from showing if she’d tried.

“Are you going to ask, before you burst?”

“ _How_ –” But she clamps her mouth shut before she can finish asking, and Ellana has to stifle a smile. “I am going to assume this was not planned,” Cassandra says then, seeming to choose her words carefully.

That goes without saying, Ellana hopes. And she’s about to explain – what, exactly, she isn’t entirely sure. Talking to Bull hadn’t been this hard, though something tells her the Seeker won’t accept the matter quite so easily, but she doesn’t know exactly what Cassandra expects her to say. _I got a bit frisky in the forest, and wouldn’t you know, age doesn’t necessarily impede one’s fertility if you’re an immortal elf?_

She doubts Cassandra would appreciate the glibness, however.

“What’s so terribly exciting in here?” the voice reaches them from the mouth of the alley, before Dorian appears, a wine-induced lethargy in his step and a tired look in his eyes that clears upon catching sight of them. Coming to a stop, he takes one look at them both – Cassandra’s stricken expression, and the small, reeking puddle at Ellana’s feet.

She sees the pieces fall into place – realization striking like a thunderbolt, flashing across his features with the glee of a secret finally discovered.

“Hah!” His smile is impish with delight. “I knew there was a reason you were being so secretive. First it’s the grave looks, the long walks on the battlements. The fact that you can’t keep from tossing up your dinner – you’re pregn–!”

She’s all but thrown herself at him, slapping her hands over his mouth before he can finish the careless announcement. “ _Shh_! Will you keep your voice down?”

Disentangling himself – and cheerfully unruffled by her reaction, and the news – Dorian makes to adjust his moustache. “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me, and after all the effort I spend, prying into your personal affairs.”

"I don't pry into _your_ personal affairs.”

“Well it wouldn’t hurt you to do so once in a while, would it?”

“We are getting off topic,” Cassandra interjects.

“I’d rather we stayed off it,” Ellana mutters, but it doesn’t deter either of them. They’re both looking at her now, Dorian’s expression curious, and Cassandra’s shifting between impatience and utter despair.

“So. This is certainly unfortunate,” Dorian says, after a pause. “It _is_ unfortunate, yes? The timing, at the very least.”

“The timing is _most_ unfortunate,” Cassandra agrees.

“I am _aware_.”

Her dwindling patience goes unnoticed, and Cassandra looks ready to start pacing. “How long were you planning on keeping it from us?”

“I–”

“Well, it would only be a matter of time before she’d start to show,” Dorian muses. “That is, if you are keeping it, of course.” He looks at her closely. “Are you?”

“ _Yes_.” She hadn’t meant for it to sound so snappy, but she’s tired, and more than a little upset. Everything that had been going so well has spiralled out of control in a matter of minutes, and if she can’t keep a level head around her companions finding out, how will she fare when the rest of Thedas does?

“I was going to tell you,” she says then. “I just…needed some time to come to terms with it myself. I haven’t known about it that long.”

Cassandra’s expression softens somewhat. “That is – understandable,” she acquiesces. Ellana is almost tempted to feign surprise, but tiredness has made shadows of her good humour.

“And what about our father-to-be?” Dorian asks then. “I am assuming you’ve told him.”

Her answer is a nod, because she doesn’t feel like dredging up _that_ conversation right now. Thankfully, Dorian doesn’t push. “I would appreciate it if you could keep it to yourselves for a little while longer,” Ellana says. “I just need time to figure things out.”

Cassandra nods. “I agree. We should keep the matter contained, until we know what to do.”

“I said those exact words just last week, you know,” Ellana says. “It’s easier said than done.”

“She has a point,” Dorian agrees. “Hard to conceal something like this when you’ve got the eyes of the world on your back. The ball at the Winter Palace next month – good lucking hiding it from those vultures. And the news will be all over Orlais by the end of the night if you pull a stunt like this. The only thing Orlesians love more than a good scandal is a public shaming. If you’re lucky, you’ll be subjected to both.”

Ellana groans. She’d forgotten about the ball. _More things to look forward to_.

“And what about Corypheus?” Cassandra asks. “There will be a battle – we cannot in good conscience ask that you participate now.”

Her fingers curl towards the anchor, feeling its weight in her palm. She hasn’t forgotten about _that_. “I don’t have much of a choice, Cassandra.”

“You know, you might avoid it altogether,” Dorian says. “He hasn’t made a move yet, and it might be months until we have to deal with him.”

“Or he might attack at the worst possible moment,” Cassandra adds, unhelpfully, and with a meaningful look at Ellana.

And not since the day they’d first named her Herald and flocked to her for divine guidance has she felt a more pressing need to make a run for it, if only to get out from under the weight of expectations suddenly dropped on her shoulders. Of course she knows these things – has thought about them extensively, and approached them from every possible angle. She’s lost sleep over Corypheus, and the decision that’s before her now, between her duty to her child and the Inquisition. The fact that she doesn’t yet have an answer to what she plans to do is the very reason she’d wanted to wait before telling everyone.

Oh, she’s feeling a headache coming on. “Could we not have this conversation _here_?”

Cassandra looks ready to protest, when the sound of approaching footsteps halts the words on her tongue, followed by a curious, accented voice, “What are you all doing in here? The carriage is waiting.” Looking far more rested than the three of them combined, Josephine wears an expression of wary curiosity as she comes to stand by Cassandra.

“Someone had a bit too much to drink last night,” Dorian lies smoothly, with a less-than-subtle nudge in Ellana’s direction, and with an easy grace that almost makes her want to believe him.

But it doesn’t take away Josephine’s look of concern. “Are you alright?” she asks Ellana, who is, for once, relieved that she doesn’t have to lie.

“I’ve been better.”

Josephine doesn’t look convinced, but seems to accept that whatever it is they’re not telling, it’s not so grave that it’s hampered Dorian’s good mood. “We should proceed to the docks,” she declares, with a lingering look at Ellana. “If we are to reach the ship before it departs.”

Studiously ignoring the multiple pairs of eyes on her, Ellana nods. There’ll be more talk on the way to Jader, at least if she knows Dorian. And Cassandra will let her curiosity get the better of her eventually, preferably once they’re back at Skyhold, but by the pensive look on her face, Ellana doubts she will last that long.

It’s a quiet procession that sets out of the dirty alley, to rejoin the bustle of the city proper, and the carriage that had been gifted to them by their hosts. As before, Ellana opts for walking, wary at the thought of the carriage shambling down the bumpy, cobbled path. There’s still the lingering smell of spiced meat on the air, but her stomach seems to have settled. _A small mercy_.

“Chin up,” Dorian says, falling back to walk with her. If she didn’t know him, she’d be surprised at his decision to walk the streets rather than ride the carriage, but recognizing it as an attempt to offer comfort, she doesn’t mention it – he rarely takes well to having his bursts of sentimentality pointed out. And though it’s spoken in good humour, there’s enough sincerity in his voice to lift her spirits, if only a little. “It could be worse.”

Ellana gives him a look. For once, she thinks, she would have liked for someone else to know the information she’s sitting on, if only to have someone to vent to that isn’t directly involved. Although what Dorian would think of Solas’ plans, she can’t even begin to imagine.

But she needs to think about something else now. And he knows about the pregnancy, if nothing else. That’s one burden shared. “Alright, I’ll bite. How?”

She thinks his grin is meant to be reassuring, but the only thing she’s sure of is that whatever follows, it’s likely not going to be very helpful. And she’s proven right when he adds, “It could be twins.”

She snorts. And then laughs, because with everything that’s happened, the thought hadn’t even crossed her mind. But even thinking about it now, it doesn’t feel like an added burden; not with Dorian’s easy smile and even easier acceptance, that could almost convince her that everything will work itself out.

“Yeah,” Ellana says, and finds her own smile with surprisingly little effort. “That would be worse.” Then, feeling strangely bold, “I think that might actually have sent him running.”

Dorian laughs “That’s the spirit! Remember, unrelenting optimism is the way to go, when bent over the chamberpot, regretting all your choices. Take it from someone who’s been there. Well, sans the being-pregnant part.”

Then, with a smile that is entirely too knowing, “Now, because you had to know I was going to ask eventually – that night in the Emerald Graves?”

 

* * *

 

Voices from the hall drift through the door – it’s time for supper, but he finds no pang of hunger when he looks for it, and no longing for company to draw him from his solitude. The candle on his desk sputters, but an idle snap of his fingers has it blazing back to life, illuminating the pages of the book perched in his lap.

_'There are few studies on the subject, on account of the delicate nature of the field, but records indicate that blood magic can be utilised favourably, in such cases that the mother’s life should be at risk. Take blood poisoning, for which delivery remains the only known cure –_

Fingers tapping a rhythmless tune against the desk, Solas finds his mind wandering, drawn in two separate directions, between the words on the page and the thoughts that will give him no rest.

The books he’d discreetly dug out of the library – a feat simplified immeasurably by Dorian’s absence – has yielded little useful information on the subject but baseless speculations and old midwife tales. And as expected, most of the volumes he’d found had to do with humans, not elves. Whether any records exist amongst the Dalish clans is entirely possible, but he would have no way of obtaining them, and certainly not with the necessary discretion.

But there had been one mention of elves – sparse recordings from an Orlesian Circle, half a century back. Pregnancies among the mages within the Circle, rare though they were, had been closely supervised, and the use of magic in itself was not deemed harmful to the child in the womb, aside from an isolated instance involving abominations, a fact he’s resolved to keep out of Ellana’s reach. Hers is a heart that worries, and there is no need to add to her concerns without proof.

Still. Caution is implied, and not for the first time, Solas finds himself wanting to offer more than speculations and vague answers, and the fact that he can say nothing for certain is vexing. Things were different, in Elvhenan. Magic was fact, an essential aspect of life, natural and simple despite its infinite complexity. He remembers friends of old, teeming with their joyous burdens and weaving spells to ward and protect. Their children, born with magic already in their veins, and crafting silvery wisps to play with before they could walk.

This world is different. With its inhabitants removed from the Fade, cut off from the magic that had once thrummed and pulsed and _lived_ within them, there is no knowing what extensive magic use could do to an unborn child. What complicates matters further is the fact that even with a tome full of evidence, he still wouldn’t be able to predict anything for certain. Ellana’s magic is the least of his concerns, and even the anchor poses less of a conundrum, than the simple question of their child’s heritage. Will it be mortal, like her? Or will it possess more of the old blood – a remnant of his own immortality? What would it mean for the world, for such a child to be born?

What would it mean for him?

A headache is building, pressing heavily on his brow. He has slept sparsely, and fitfully, since Ellana’s departure, and his research has done little but add to his growing list of unanswered questions.

Solas doesn’t allow himself to linger too long on the fact that her continued absence appears to be contributing to his agitated state of mind.

A throat cleared drags his unseeing eyes from the page, to find a shadow in the doorway. He recognizes the elf as one of his own – Tamsin, one of his eyes and ears amongst Leliana’s spies. Recruited to the Inquisition from the hoarfrost carcass of Sahrnia, he’d been a despondent lad, and had found his way into Solas’ operation through Roz, who’d helped treat him for frostbite.

Upon catching his gaze, the boy lifts a hand, displaying a note caught between his fingers.

Solas’ nod is discreet, and when he glances up next Tamsin is gone. Shutting the book, he tucks it between the papers on his desk, before rising from his seat. He takes his time, mindful not to draw undue attention from above, before he makes for the door – ostensibly, heading for a walk.

As expected, he finds Tamsin on the battlements, surveying the courtyard below, but he doesn’t dawdle as Solas approaches, and holds out the note for him to take. “Sister Leliana received this an hour ago. I would have delivered it sooner, but it was hard getting my hands on it to copy.”

Solas takes the folded note, eyes skimming over the hastily scribbled words. Vague, and likely for a reason, in case the raven should be intercepted.

_‘The Queen did not arrive on time’_

“It’s from her contact in Jader,” Tamsin elaborates. “She got this real worried look when she read it, and wouldn’t say a word to any of us. She sent a raven, but I don’t know what the note said.”

Jader, on the coast. For someone with their sights set on Nevarra, the most natural place to catch a ship across the Waking Sea.

An ill feeling descends. And fatalistic though he might be, he’s not one to jump to the worst conclusions without knowing all the details. But the note seems a dark portent, and he can’t shake the thought of her, back turned as she rode out the gates. _Most things are dangerous, one way or another_.

And his is a truly dreadful luck, if those should be her last words to him.

“I heard her pray,” Tamsin says then. “Sister Leliana. It was just a few words. ‘Maker, guide them home’,” he repeats, and when Solas looks up from the note, it’s to find his concerns mirrored in the boy’s face. No longer the sullen lad who’d come to him, fingers wrapped in gauze and a stuttering request on his tongue, his face is bright with feeling now. The Inquisition has offered much to souls like Tamsin – and the Inquisitor herself, no less.

“It is likely a simple delay,” Solas says. “But thank you for telling me. I am sure the Nightingale has more information.” No order – a request. “Perhaps you might find out.”

The boy looks less than convinced, but nods stiffly, and is gone between one breath and the next, leaving Solas on the battlements, pondering over his own assurances. It is likely just a delay, and there is no reason he should believe it to be due anything worse than a bout of bad weather. _And yet._

The note crumbles in his hand. Ineptitude is a crippling weight, dragging heavily on his limbs. A desire to do something reckless simmers under his skin, an old feeling, a _young_ feeling, but once again, his fate is that he can do nothing, nothing at all but wait.

 

* * *

 

The waves crest, white-tipped on the dark sea, to push against the ship’s hull. Above, skies that have stretched endless and blue for most of their voyage have turned overcast and grey. Heavy rainclouds loom on the horizon, and a cold mist creeps across the deck. The ship’s Captain – a grizzled-looking surface dwarf claiming to have been born with sea-sense rather than stone-sense – seems optimistic, but Ellana doubts it would have made much of a difference to her, rain or blue skies.

Another wave crashes against the hull. _The Tarnished Queen_ lurches, and her stomach follows suit.

A hand presses against her back, but all she manages is a pathetic groan, huddled against the ship’s railing.

“Surely the cabin would be preferable,” Cassandra says. For all her earlier chagrin, sympathy softens her voice now.

“Need fresh air,” Ellana moans, before her stomach gives out again, dissolving the words into unintelligible retching noises. But the Seeker doesn’t so much as flinch, entirely unperturbed by the display.

“The tea you have been drinking – it helps?”

She doesn’t feel like she could manage so much as a sip – the mere thought of ingesting anything at all makes her want to recoil in protest – but she nods. The Seeker opens her mouth to speak, likely to ask where she keeps it, when a voice cuts across the deck.

“Captain Balder! We’re being pursued!”

Cassandra is on her feet in a flash. “What?”

Ellana blinks, lifting herself up to the railing with difficulty, and through the nausea-driven haze she manages to pick out something on the water.

Black sails rise from the grey mist, and the sight tugs at something within her – a knowledge hammered against a young heart, with fancies for human novels and adventure tales.

The Captain speaks her fear out loud, mouth shaping the word like an oath, “Pirates.”

The Seeker seems unimpressed – or at the very least, unwilling to succumb to panic. “Any chance we can outmanoeuvre them?”

The Captain shakes his head, worry visible in the deep set of his brow. “Not at this distance. The mist covered their approach. _Damn_.” Turning towards the deck, he raises his voice in a bellow, “All hands on deck, and prepare for battle!”

The door to the cabin opens, revealing Dorian. “What’s all the fuss?”

Cassandra already has her hand on the pommel of her sword. “We are about to be boarded. Have your staff at the ready.” She looks to Ellana. “Can you stand?”

Pulling her eyes from the swiftly approaching ship, Ellana nods. “Yes.”

“Good. Stay close, and–” she hesitates. She doesn’t look towards her stomach, but her pause says enough. “Watch yourself,” she adds, at length.

Sucking a breath through her nose, Ellana shoves the nausea back, shifting her focus to the approaching vessel, wraithlike where it glides through the mist towards them. Just one ship – hopefully they will have miscalculated their odds. They have a handful of Inquisition agents on board; not a force to be taken lightly, despite its questionable size. Then there’s Cassandra and Dorian, and – despite her current condition – Ellana herself.

It happens quickly – she isn’t given time to pitch numbers against each other and weigh their own odds, as the pirate ship overtakes them. The ram of the smaller vessel against _The Tarnished Queen’s_ side sends her stumbling, feet tripping over each other, but she catches herself against the railing, just in time for the first elated _hoot_ to cleave the air, before a shape lands on the deck next to where she’s standing.

She’d left her staff in her room, but she’s never been dependent on it, and fire laps at her fingertips as she makes to grab the pirate’s vest, setting it aflame and turning the cheer to a panicked scream, and sending him trashing across the deck. But her victory is a short-lived thing, as the smell of burning flesh makes her double over, heaving. She hasn’t eaten in a while and oh, it’s painful – the lack of release and the pressure on her chest. Tears leak from her eyes, and for a second she feels like she might pass out.

Someone grabs her hair then – hoists her to her feet with enough force to tear a good handful from her scalp, and she would have cried out if she wasn’t so surprised.

“ _Mages_ ,” the word is spat, a hot breath against the back of her neck. “Only thing worse to have on a boat is a woman.”

She doesn’t have a reply – she doesn’t know what she would say but spit at his feet, and that probably wouldn’t go over well. But she struggles against his grip, furiously kicking her feet. It doesn’t do much – he’s easily twice her size, and with a hand clamping over her wrist, he forces her to her knees.

“Captain Laertes!” he calls out. “I think I’ve got her.”

A younger man disentangles himself from the fighting, delivering a swift slice of his dagger that fells one of the deckhands like a tree, before sauntering towards them. She’d thought the one holding her might hold some authority, but aside from the title, the way the younger man carries himself makes it clear he’s the one in charge.

The one with his hand buried in her hair gives it a sharp tug. “Reddish hair,” he says. “Pointy ears. No face markings though,” he adds. “Thought she was supposed to have those.”

The Captain comes to kneel in front of her, but Ellana keeps her gaze firmly on the deck.

“Well, if there’s any doubt, there’s always this,” the man called Laertes says, grabbing her left hand, and before she can pull it out of his grip, he’s pried her glove off her fingers. Turning it over, he studies the anchor, before a grin stretches across his face. “An honour, Your Worship.”

Anger swells, a fearsome thing, but with her hands pinned and the grip on her hair, she can’t do much more than glare.

The Captain leans towards her then, his smile almost amicable. He’s a handsome man, tanned skin and braided hair glossy with oils, and grey eyes light and clever. Familiar, almost – and the unwanted comparison makes her want to throw up again.

“Tell your men to fall back,” he tells her calmly. “And we’ll spare them. If you don’t, it’ll just be you, and us. We came prepared for a fight. You didn’t.”

The others are still fighting, and though part of her wants to protest – to take her chances that they can drive them off – she doesn’t need a close look to tell her they are grossly outnumbered. She spots Cassandra, and a flash of magic that can only be Dorian’s, purplish and ghoul-like creatures shambling across the deck to assist, but cut down before they can get very far.

Then she spots Captain Balder, on his side, vacant eyes looking towards the helm.

She knows what she has to do.

“Cassandra!”

Her voice is hoarse as she shouts, but it succeeds in drawing her attention, and her eyes find the Seeker’s from across the deck. And part of her half-expects her to come charging towards them, but Cassandra doesn’t react the way she’d thought.

Kicking the legs out from under the pirate she’d been fighting, the Seeker drops her sword, displaying her hands clearly for the Captain to see, and voice ringing out across the deck,

“We yield!”

Ellana is certain she’s gaping, but she’d expected more resistance. And she’s almost tempted to ask what could have made Cassandra surrender without hesitation, when she catches sight of where she’s looking. And following the line of her gaze, understanding is quick in settling, bleeding through her disbelief as her eyes come to land on Laertes’ free hand.

And the dagger, positioned towards her stomach.

“Splendid,” the Captain croons, rising to his feet in a smooth motion. The fighting has died down, and the deck is littered with bodies, but the remaining pirates make quick work of them, tossing all but their own overboard. Ellana catches sight of more than one Inquisition uniform before they disappear over the railing, and guilt clamps around her heart, knowing now that her presence on the ship is what doomed them.

As it turns out, the only ones left standing are Cassandra, Dorian, Josephine, and the ship’s first mate, sporting a cut between her brows that’s bleeding profusely. There are no other injuries as far as Ellana can tell, though Josephine’s blouse looks more brown than gold, but something tells her it’s not her own blood. And it’s with the same calm used when dealing with fussy nobles that the Ambassador abides by the pirate’s orders. With their hands and feet bound, they’re all made to sit against the railing, across the deck from Ellana. The whole thing is done with a stark efficiency that tells her it’s not the pirates’ first raid.

It’s started to rain, a light, cool drizzle. The droplets cling to her eyelashes, but she blinks them away. Things have happened so fast, it might well be a dream, induced by her extensive and enthusiastic vomiting. Perhaps she fell asleep by the railing, dragged to the Fade by her exhaustion. Perhaps it’s simply a mirror of her overwrought mind, always worrying about what could go wrong. _Pirates, of all things._

But it’s not a dream – she’s grown proficient enough in dream-walking to know the difference. And she’s not surprised that she thinks of Solas now, and she wants to laugh – wants her lungs to hurt from it, the cruel irony of it all. Danger in all things, like her very presence is a beacon for disaster.

“So,” Laertes begins, wiping the blade of his dagger on his trousers. “How much gold would your Inquisition be willing to pay for their honoured leader? Come on, give me a number. Any number, and we’ll go from there.”

“What a crude operation,” Dorian quips, though anger dilutes his attempted humour. “Though I should expect no less from – what are you, exactly? Antivan? Rivaini? So hard to tell through all the filth.”

The Captain flashes a grin. “Cheeky bastard. I’d toss you overboard if you weren’t so pretty.” He looks to Cassandra then. “Seeker Pentaghast,” he greets, with surprising courtesy, before he motions to himself. “Laertes Pentaghast. _Very_ distant relation, although something tells me that isn’t going to ensure your cooperation.” He chuckles. “Alas, we can’t all be dragonslayers.”

Cassandra only glares, and resolutely says nothing. Laertes spins his dagger; tosses it from hand to hand. “No one?”

“If you’re asking anyone, ask me,” Ellana snaps then, her own anger making her reckless. “But I can tell you now, they’ll give you no coin for my corpse.” For once, she prays, to all the false gods of her childhood and the Maker himself if it helps, that her lie will fall with surety.

Laertes regards her coolly. “Admirable attempt, Your Worship,” he drawls. “But you are lying. And we’re not planning on bartering your corpse – those are only a commodity in Nevarra. No, we’re trading you alive.” He pauses. “Well. Unless you do something foolish, like try and escape.”

“You would risk the Breach opening up again, with no one to close it, for a measly bag of coin?” Dorian scoffs. “You’re not just crude, you’re imbecilic.”

“On the contrary, the risk of the Breach opening up is exactly why we’re doing this,” Laertes says with a shrug, unaffected by the jibe. “That mark alone must be worth a fortune, not to mention, she’s got value as a prominent figurehead. Not quite an Empress, but nothing to scoff at. And from what I’ve heard, the Inquisition isn’t exactly lacking in assets.”

A meaty hand clamps around her wrist, yanking it in the air. “Hey, Captain – how much do you think just the hand’s worth? Think we should go with separate prices?”

“ _That_ –” Laertes begins, sounding like he’s about to offer a reprimand, before his expression changes. “–is actually not such a bad idea. You’re not as dumb as you look, Hadwin.” He turns to Josephine then. “Ambassador Montilyet, if I’m not mistaken. Something tells me you’re used to dealing with tough decisions. Negotiations, shady dealings on the sly – that sort of thing. You’re good with values, I bet. So tell me, what’s more important – the hand or the elf?”

Then his grin turns suddenly chilled. “Or maybe it’s the child she carries that’ll fetch the most?”

Josephine’s eyes go wide, her cloak of calm dropping to leave an expression of outright shock. “What?” Turning towards Cassandra, she receives a short, brusque nod of affirmation. Dorian says nothing.

The Captain turns to Ellana then, to find her own eyes wide. “Oh, we’ve been tailing you since you first set foot in Cumberland, Your Worship,” he explains. “We had people at the banquet – at your table, actually. And we caught your little chat in the alley. Imagine our surprise, the eminent Herald of Andraste, in the family way. But then you are an elf, so I guess it’s not so surprising.” He tilts his head. “Fucking like rabbits, isn’t that how the saying goes?”

Shame burns, but not quite as bright as her anger – a furious, mindless rage that makes it difficult to see straight.

“Well,” Laertes sighs, proffering his blade. “No use keeping you all alive for talking if you’re not going to say anything useful. We’ll just have to make a guess at what’s she’s worth, and go from there.” He turns to where Josephine sits, dagger twirling almost lazily.

“No!” Ellana squirms against the hands holding her in place, desperation making her bold, making her forget–

A loud _crack_ erupts, a tremor shooting through the wooden deck underfoot, before the planks break and shift, thick, curling vines pushing up from below. They sprout and grow, climbing along the deck to wrap around the ankles of the pirates closest to the railing, before flinging them overboard in one smooth motion. Caught off guard by the sudden attack, they were barely given time to scream.

Too stunned to do anything but gape, Ellana watches as a small shape emerges from behind the mast, a copper-shod staff gripped between pale and slender fingers, and face partially concealed by a bright green scarf. But she catches sight of _vallaslin_ and a defined nose. _An elf?_

“Oh, it worked!” she exclaims, surprised delight a pleasant trill in her voice. “I didn’t think it would, this is so exciting!”

A moment passes where no one says anything, before Laertes calls – “Hadwin!”

A dagger sings through the air, before lodging itself in Hadwin’s back. He slumps forward with a cry, his grip loosening from Ellana’s hair and wrist, and suddenly she’s free, and Hadwin is dead at her feet. More voices cry out, drawing her attention across the deck, to see a shadowed shape dancing between the remaining pirates, sea-legs sure and steady and half-moon daggers gleaming with the rain’s silver pearls, stilling their protests on their dying breaths.

The last pirate falls, and then she’s turning to Laertes, pushing her hood away to reveal a dark, grinning face, fiercely beautiful and bedecked with gold, rings in her ears and a heavy bead beneath her full lip; in her brow and nose.

Laertes takes a startled step back, his confident demeanour gone, replaced by disbelief. “ _You_.”

Extracting her dagger from Hadwin’s back, wiping the finely cut blade on his shirt, the woman’s grin widens; the links of her heavy gold choker tinkling in tune with her laughter.

“Me.”


	8. Chapter 8

The pause gives her the opening she needs.

At any other time she’d preach mercy – would measure the weight of a life with care, however corrupt the core, and find it worth saving.  _Weak of heart_ , they’ve called her.  _Kind_ , others have countered, but whichever is true, fury is what drives her now, a reckless, mindless thing that remembers the knife angled towards her stomach, and the callous bartering of the life of her child. Scalp stinging and the acrid taste of bile still on her tongue, she can’t tell which emotion burns the hottest – shame, at her own ineptitude, her own pathetic helplessness in the face of danger; or anger, at herself and at the fate that seems to deem it fit to land her in these blasted situations.

She hadn’t been given much chance to use her magic, and with her reserves still full she draws on them now, pulls and pulls and with a physical  _tug_ – yanks a bolt of lightning from the sky with every ounce of strength she’s got.

It strikes its target head-on, and Laertes goes down with a  _thud_  that tells her he’s dead even before she catches sight of his wide-sprung, bloodshot eyes.

“That’s for the rabbit comment,” she spits the lie, voice trembling with anger and something else, and shaking the tingle of magic from her fingers, Ellana turns towards the newcomers.

The woman with the daggers looks impressed. “Well. Saves me the trouble.” She makes to take a step forward, but Ellana positions herself in front of the others, hands still raised, and sparks leaping between her fingertips in a clear show of warning.

“One more step, and there’ll be a repeat performance,” she says. “I don’t care that you saved us – if you’ve got the same idea in mind as this one, I’ll tear open a rift right here and toss you both through.” Nevermind the fact that she’s never actually attempted such a feat, but they don’t know that, and she’s so angry right now she doesn’t even think about whether or not they can tell she’s the worst liar in all of Thedas.

The pirate – because she can’t be anything else, Ellana thinks – sighs. “The price of selflessness.” Then, under her breath, “I don’t know how Hawke puts up with this.”

Ellana blinks, but before she can ask, finds her surprise echoed by Cassandra at her back. “What?”

She still hasn’t relaxed her stance, but some of her anger has given way to wariness. And curiosity. “You know Hawke?”

She’s awarded with a snort. “Everyone knows Hawke.” And she’s about to elaborate, when her words are cut off by the groan of the ship as it tilts to the side. But she’s quick to regain her footing, and Ellana doesn’t stumble this time, though she catches Dorian’s startled oath somewhere behind her.

The pirate inclines her head, casually, as though the ship isn’t one broken plank away from taking them all down to the sea’s bottom. “Kitten, be a dear and uproot your pretty plant before it sinks us all.”

Her companion lifts her staff, a single word rolling off her tongue, before the roots creep back, to slither below deck through the cracks, save those that remain to keep the planks together. Ellana only offers the patchwork solution a furtive glance. There’s a question sitting on her tongue, about how long the ship will actually keep afloat in this condition, but she foregoes asking it, moving instead to help the others out of their bindings.

Cassandra is the first to push to her feet. “I know who you are,” she declares, the words directed toward the human woman. “Isabela. Varric calls you–”

“Rivaini,” she finishes, with a grin. “Talking about me, is he? I’m almost flattered.”

“Has he mentioned me?” the elf asks, with that trilling accent that tugs on something in Ellana’s memory – a table decked with cards and cups of wine, and a dwarf’s sombre laughter as he recounts tales of old friends. A ball of string, and a basket full of alley cats.

“Daisy,” Ellana murmurs, realization settling. “You’re Daisy.”

Her face alights at the mention, although whatever she’s about to say, Dorian beats her to it. “Yes, terribly fascinating, all these nicknames. I’m rather more interested in knowing how you came to be  _here_.” He spares a glance at the roots still embedded in the planks, and Laertes’ prone form. “A little too convenient, to be mere happenstance.”

Sheathing her daggers, Isabela shifts her weight. “That’s because it’s not.” She gives a broad gesture towards Ellana. “We – shall we say,  _apprehended_  some disreputable souls on the Cumberland docks a few days ago, wagging their tongues about the Inquisitor’s visit and tossing their plans about like a drunkard’s coins. I couldn’t help myself. And it being Laertes Pentaghast’s crew…Well.” She gives the felled pirate a bored look. “Always was an arrogant prick. Had his balls hanging out like they were made of gold.”

Cassandra doesn’t look convinced – though perhaps a bit disconcerted, no doubt from that last remark. “We had soldiers check every inch of the ship before our departure. How did you get on board?”

A brow quirks, and amusement winks in copper-coloured eyes. “You say that like I’ve never been a stowaway before.” Then she nods to the first mate, now holding a piece of cloth to her brow. She gives a lazy wave in return. “I have friends in high places,” Isabela shrugs. Then, as an afterthought, “And low places. And a few somewhere in the middle.”

Cassandra’s frown has not lessened, but it’s Josephine who speaks up now. “That does not explain your presence in Cumberland in the first place.”

“Now that is actually coincidental,” Isabela confirms. “Whether you’ll believe it or not. Small world and all.” A pause, where she seems to consider her words. She exchanges a look with her companion. “I got a letter,” she says then, turning back to Ellana. “We both did. Something about the Fade and a demon army. And Hawke. Of course, nothing terribly surprising, knowing her. So we’ve been poking around. Stirring up a reasonable amount of trouble, a lot of it involving knives.” She grins, though a note of sadness accompanies it, disappearing as quickly as it surfaced. “Never could cause quite as much trouble as Hawke, though. Had a special knack for it, that girl.”

“We have not seen Hawke since Adamant,” Cassandra says.

“That makes quite a few of us. We had a trail. Well, sort of. Muttered rumours in seedy portside taverns, that sort of thing, but nothing of substance. Though now that we’ve been sufficiently side-tracked, I suppose there’s nothing to do about it.”

Ellana frowns. “But why help us? You owe the Inquisition no allegiance.”

Isabela tilts her head. “No,” she says, honestly, “But Varric speaks fondly of you, so I suppose there’s some merit to this rescue. That, and the whole saviour-of-Thedas thing.” She waves a hand, the tip of her dagger sending raindrops flying in a wide, curving arc. “And I’ve a feeling there’s a scandal brewing. You don’t strike me as the sort to think that  _yes, this is the right time to get myself properly knocked up_.”

Ellana bristles, but tries not to let the words sink it – they’re not unkindly spoken. “Not everything goes as planned,” she says, using her Inquisitor’s Voice. “Though if we could keep this from turning into a bard’s tale for the ages, I’d be most grateful.” There are enough bawdy tavern songs about loose-legged maidens without adding her name to the list. “I don’t mean to reduce the value of your assistance, but I’d appreciate your discretion more.”

Isabela laughs, a deep, throaty sound. “Oh, pet. I’m the essence of discretion.”

The elf blinks, glancing up at her companion. “You’re never.”

A sigh. “Merrill.”

Despite herself – and the events that have taken place, and their current, rather precarious situation – Ellana finds a smile. Perhaps it’s the incessant vomiting, or the exhaustion that’s become something of a constant companion, but she’s let her hands drop, and some of the tension has bled out of her shoulders. It might not be trust, but she’s read  _The Tale of the Champion,_ and though she might not know these people personally, they were people Hawke trusted. And she’d trusted Hawke.

And there’s something about their easy repartee that strikes a chord.

“Thank you,” she says then, voice strangely rough. “I didn’t say it before.”

Isabela shrugs. “Don’t worry your pretty head about it. Rescued from pirates by a pirate and an apostate? I’d have qualms, in your shoes.”

“Qualms or no,” Cassandra interjects then. “We cannot linger here, twiddling our thumbs. They will be expecting us in Jader. If we do not return…” She leaves the sentence hanging, but the implication is clear enough. Ellana feels another headache taking root.  _There’ll be an uproar, no doubt._

“Then we’d best get you back to your Inquisition,” Isabela declares.

“And how do you suppose we do that, with no crew, and no direction?” Ellana looks at the fallen pirates. The roots beneath her feet.

Isabela barks a laugh. “I’m an Admiral, love – I could sail a sloop like this in my sleep. You know, I think I’ve done that once, actually. Memories are a little hazy, though.” She grins, before making towards the helm, entirely unperturbed by their dilemma. Ellana watches her go, feeling suddenly very tired.

“Ellana?”

At the sound of her name she turns to find Josephine, worry etched onto her fine features. Dorian and Cassandra are standing some paces away, not blatantly listening, but not pretending at ignorance, either. And it’s clear what she wants to discuss, though she looks genuinely loath to bring it up.

Somehow, her reluctance to pry makes Ellana feel a little better. Too many things have been tossed into the open today.

“This is why you asked for a healer, that time,” Josephine says then. A careful approach, and from her, entirely expected.

Ellana nods, and feels suddenly sheepish – and a little guilty, for keeping secrets from her closest.  _Although it’s not much of a secret anymore._ She chances a glance towards the helm, where Isabela is inspecting the ship. Merrill seems content to watch the horizon.

A hand on her own then, a tentative touch. “If there is anything I can assist you with,” Josephine says, and Ellana has to smile. Ever the pragmatist, Josie. “You need only ask.”

And rapidly dwindling mood aside, the smile she gives is genuine. “Thank you, Josie.”

An arm is slung around her shoulders then, as Isabela leans in. “Not to put a damper on the situation, but the girl’s sprung a leak.”

Merrill scrambles for the railing, to peer over the side. “Leak!” she squeaks “By the Dread Wolf, Isabela, there’s a hole in the hull!”

Isabela waves her hand. “I’ve sailed worse.” But Merrill is making cooing noises, fretting over how to best cover the hole. Dorian moves to have a look, offering up an idea, and Ellana watches the exchange, feeling suddenly, starkly, out of place. It’s been a while since she’s heard the curse uttered so casually, so far from any of the People, and she almost wants to laugh, a bitter, half-hysterical laugh because it’s  _absurd_ , the knowledge she’s sitting on, lost beneath so many of the other things that have happened, she barely spares it a second thought these days.

She wonders then, what he’s doing now. If he’s waiting for her to come back; if he thinks about her at all, and if he feels her missing presence as keenly as she does his.

_How could you even ask yourself that?_ And she’s glad her thoughts are private, because her own disappointment is enough – disappointment at the direction they’ve taken, and the bitter anger that accompanies them. But things have been so tense between them lately, and it’s with sadness she considers the thought of returning. What will he think when he hears? She thinks of his anger, that night when Bull had carried her up the pass. A rare slip of a temper she wouldn’t even have believed existed, if she didn’t know better – if she didn’t know  _him_  better.

She wonders if he’d be angry now, if he knew.

Nudging the thought away, and the almost perverse pleasure it sparks, she resolves to take more measures to be careful. More guards, perhaps, and more precautions on longer journeys. Perhaps she ought to do away with longer journeys altogether. If her presence should be required, those seeking her could always come to Skyhold. It shouldn’t be too much to ask, pregnant or not.

She looks out across the grey horizon, the churning sea and the gently cresting waves. A fitting image of her mind at present, overturning with thoughts and questions; uncertainties and worries, and suddenly, desperately, she finds herself missing Solas’ counsel. He’d always offered it freely, no matter how trivial her troubles, and now more than ever Ellana finds she could use his advice.

Or simply, his presence.

She thinks she might ask for it, when they return. But it’s a long journey home yet, and for now her only counsel remains her own.

 

* * *

 

Since Tamsin’s note, over a week goes by without word.

Solas spends it walking, picking out rarely-trodden paths along the mountains with the cold to keep him alert, and his thoughts clear. He walks the Fade, hoping to seek her out, but her presence eludes him – a fleeting wisp of her being that never lingers long enough for him to catch. Her dreams are fitful, erratic. She does not stay long in one place, and soon he relents, though the stubborn will remains, to find word, any word, on her whereabouts.

He tries not to think too much about it, what might have befallen them on their journey home, but despite his attempts the thoughts come to him, unbidden. And at their heels is the ever-present memory of her voice, and the weight of her, pressed against him. Her laughter shivers against his ear, tempting him to look up, to catch her approach, and he can almost hear her footsteps, soft and certain against the stones of the Keep. But there’s no one to visit him in the rotunda, and even Dorian’s presence is felt, in the eerie quiet that’s descended on the tower.

He can’t make himself think of what he’d do if she never returned. Nevermind the missing anchor – the fact that he would never again see  _her_  doesn’t bear thinking about.

_And what of your plans now?_ The thought is almost mocking. So many things about this world are out of his hands, and it’s a frustration unlike any he’s known. And it’s with a restless heart that he retires every night, settling down to sleep in the too-empty tower, no longer with the intention but rather the hope that he might find her beyond the waking world.

 

* * *

 

She dreams, on the ship.

The Fade is different here – swaying, titling beneath her feet, the earth cresting like waves, but she doesn’t feel sick here, nor does she lose her footing. White mist curls around her ankles, thick as curdled milk, and the shifting shadows make it hard to see where she’s going.

But she walks; picks a tentative path through the fog, her heart in her throat though there’s nothing to run from but the quiet. And she’s not sure if she’s walking an already set path, or making her own, but the ground eventually settles, no longer heaving, only still and unyielding stone.

At last some of the mist clears, and the path forks, but there’s no signpost, and she can’t see far enough to guess where they lead. Or maybe it’s her eyes that are clouded – it’s hard to tell, even as she blinks to clear them, struggling to peer through the mist into the distance. She can’t decide whether to stay or proceed forward, but something tells her there’s no use turning back.

Small fingers slip between her own then, soft-palmed and delicate. A breath hitches, a fearful thing.

_“Mamae.”_

She looks down, but what she finds isn’t a hand in her own, but a leather cord wound around her fingers, the pressure like a hound’s jaws, sunk into her skin.

Desperation grabs her, and she tries to shake it off, when the pressure suddenly disappears. A swinging pendant drops from her slackened fingers, the bone shattering against the stone underfoot–

She wakes with a start, nearly ramming her head into the bunk above.

Breath escaping in a huff, Ellana drops back against the mattress, grimacing at the dampness of the sheets.  _Wonderful._

The cabin is stuffy, too many people and too many breaths, soft snores lost beneath the wind rattling against the walls, and she’s quiet as she slips from her bunk to make for the door, aching to get outside – to get out from under the weight of the roof and the walls enclosing her; caging her in like the dream she can’t quite shake. And the fresh air is a cold relief, the sea quiet and dark, and the bob of the ship against the water a soothing song. There is no mist now, only the pervasive smell of saltwater, but it’s preferable to the air inside the cabin.

Blinking away the last vestiges of sleep, it’s to find Cassandra awake, sitting with her back against the mast.

The Seeker lifts her head at Ellana’s approach, seeming unsurprised to see her. “Bad dreams?”

Her left hand tingles. For some reason, the question is difficult to answer. “I don’t know,” she says, after a pause.

But if she has questions, Cassandra keeps them to herself. “You should get some rest. There is more sea to cross, yet.”

“I could say the same for you, you know.”

She receives a look. “Sleep will not come to me.” Cassandra considers the deck; the patchwork of planks-and-vines that’s still holding the ship together. The bodies are gone, and the blood, but there are reminders left; the discolouration of the wood in certain places. You can only scrub so much. “A fitting punishment, I suppose,” she murmurs, before lifting her eyes back to Ellana, who’s taken a seat beside her. “I – am sorry.”

Ellana blinks. “What for?”

Cassandra’s sigh is an explosive thing, carrying more anger than grief. “I should have asked for a larger party to travel with us. Perhaps then…” She shakes her head. “We would not be in this situation. You would not have–”

“There was no reason to request more, not for a journey like this,” Ellana cuts her off. “Anyone would think that overcautious.”

Cassandra’s brows draw together sharply. “But you – your condition–”

“Is my responsibility. I was the one who should have considered the danger – who should have asked for more guards. I should have told you I was pregnant.” She considers the thought a moment; what would have happened if she had. Would they have been better prepared for the pirates? Or would they simply have lost more people?

She laughs then, a mirthless breath. “I honestly don’t know how I keep getting myself into these situations.”

Cassandra snorts. “ _That_  is nothing new,” she says, with a hint of a smile.

Ellana shakes her head. “But I never hesitated, before. I wouldn’t have let them take me like that. I would have–”  _Fought back_.  _Struggled. Done something other than gawk like a fool._

“True,” Cassandra says. “But you were not pregnant before.”

She leans her head against the mast, looking up at the sky and the blanket of stars. “Right.”

They fall silent, lost to their own thoughts, and the quiet of the ship’s deck. Isabela is at the helm, looking out across the water. It’s a long way home yet, and that’s not counting the journey from Jader to Skyhold.

But at least she knows where she’s going, and the thought grants her enough peace of mind, to find her way back to a fitful sleep.

 

* * *

 

By the state of the vessel, Ellana wouldn’t have thought it possible, but they make it to shore, by some grace of whatever real or would-be gods are watching from the Beyond.

It’s early – the pale grey light of early dawn hard on her eyes, and casting the port in a pall of weary shadows. Stepping onto the docks, it’s with relief, and a sigh pulling loose from her breast as she feels the solidity of the planks beneath her feet.

Dorian yawns beside her. “I never thought I’d be so happy to see any sight in the South, and yet here we are. I could kiss the ground.” He considers the wharf, then snorts. “Well. Let’s not be too hasty.”

Ellana smiles. “I don’t know, the ground is looking pretty tempting, now that you mention it.”

They others are disembarking when a young man comes running, steps quick and silent across the creaking planks. The brass Inquisition emblem pinned to his jerkin proclaims him as one of their own, even before the title falls from his lips–

“My lady Inquisitor!”

It’s an elf – city-born, by his lack of  _vallaslin_ , and familiar, though beyond being part of the Inquisition, she can’t quite place him. Coming to a stop before them, he offers a quick salute. “Tamsin, my lady,” he introduces. “Just arrived from Skyhold. I–” His gaze shifts to the ship at their backs, still wrapped in vines and tilting slightly to the side. He blinks once, and seems to have forgotten what he’d been about to say. “What–”

“Girl’s still afloat, don’t get your smalls in a twist,” Isabela declares as she saunters past, giving Tamsin an amicable slap on the shoulder. “Though it’s fair to say she won’t stay like that for long. Might want to get someone on that.”

The scout looks to Ellana for confirmation, to which she can only shrug. Varric would have known what to say – just the right words to paint the most ludicrous story, and that would no doubt echo in the  _Herald’s Rest_  for months to come. As it stands, all she can manage is, “I don’t know what to tell you, to be honest, but as far as pirate raids go, it was pretty eventful. Of course, it’s my first, so what do I know?” But her attempted levity sounds hollow to her own ears. She tries not to cringe. “But we’re back, so there’s that, though I’m guessing a bit behind schedule.” It’s something of a gross understatement – they’re days overdue, sailing a half-sunken ship with only two people on board with an actual clue as to what they were doing.

Once again, she finds herself wondering if he’s worried about her.

She dismisses the thought a moment later, when Tamsin nods. “I’ll send a crow to Sister Nightingale right away.” He takes a step, then pauses. Inclining his head, he seems to consider his words, before adding, “It’s good to have you back, my lady.”

Then he’s off, leaving Ellana on the docks. Dorian has followed Isabela, along with Cassandra and Josephine, and there is a gathering of what looks to be more Inquisition agents beyond the wharf. Soon they’ll have horses, and then it’s off to Skyhold – and on the way, what she hopes is an inn and a feather bed that doesn’t sway beneath her.

She doesn’t know if it’s the thought of the swaying, or if it’s just her condition making itself known, but a wave of nausea hits, and then she’s bending over, dragging air through her nose in an attempt at stemming the sudden onslaught. Even if it’s become a fairly regular occurrence, it’s still remarkably unpleasant, the whims of her own body completely beyond her control.

_Breathe. In, out._

A pair of pale feet enter her field of vision, and she doesn’t have to look up to identify them as belonging to Merrill.

“Are you unwell?” The genuine concern in her voice tugs at something within her – the urge to cry is so sudden it’s startling, and not to mention perfectly ridiculous, but she forces the feeling down, along with the bile threatening to push back up.

“Morning sickness,” she explains, taking another breath. “I wouldn’t recommend it.”

She’s almost sitting now, and Merrill kneels beside her, resting a tentative hand on her shoulder. “I can help with that, you know,” she says.

Ellana looks up at that, a frown marring her brow. “Wh – how? I didn’t think healing magic could help with that kind of thing.” She’d asked Marta about it, and had been told as much.

“Oh, it’s not healing magic.” Merrill smiles demurely, before adding, cheerfully, “It’s blood magic.”

Ellana thinks she might be sick for an entirely different reason now. “I’m going to pretend I didn’t just hear you say that.”

“It’s perfectly safe,” Merrill explains, calmly, as though she’s had this conversation many times before. “And I’ve done it before, loads of times. I knew someone who owned a clinic in Kirkwall. He didn’t like that I did, but some of the women would come to me. Healing magic can only do so much.”

Ellana considers the words, and the speaker – Merrill looks calm, and entirely unfazed by her dubious expression.

And it sounds like a bad idea, no matter how she looks at it, even if she still feels like the next thing out of her mouth might sooner be vomit than words. The nausea sits, like an ever-present threat, just waiting to knock her off her feet. She doesn’t know what’s worse – the actual nausea, or the fact that it’s out of her control.

And atop everything else, there’s the fact that she’s got a long journey ahead of her still. On horseback.

“Alright,” she says then, cautiously, before chancing a look towards where the others have gathered. If anyone finds their display suspicious, they don’t look like they’re planning on coming to check. And so, with a bravery she knows is false, even before she hears it in her own words, “Do your worst.”

Merrill reaches a hand out – carefully, as one might an easily frightened mare, but only at Ellana’s nod does she place it against her stomach. It’s a delicate thing, much smaller than Marta’s, and the pressure is so light she barely feels it.

A moment passes, and Ellana wonders if she’s actually going to do anything, but the query doesn’t even make it off her tongue, swallowed by her sharp intake of breath. There’s a  _tug_  – the sensation of something being pulled somewhere within her, not painful but decidedly strange, and then–

“Oh,” she breathes, and looks down at her stomach. The nausea is, inexplicably – gone.

When she looks up to meet Merrill’s gaze, she’s smiling. “Feeling better?”

Ellana can only gape, a protest at the tip of her tongue. “But–”  _Blood magic is no worse than any other. Properly used._

The words come back – a snippet of conversation caught over her shoulder, long ago now. She hadn’t thought much about it at the time; Solas’ views on magic is among the more liberal that she knows, and the remark had meant little.

Now, though…

“Thank you,” she says, still a little stunned. She tries to look for the nausea, as though it’s too good to be true, what she’s feeling now. The relief that remains.

As though reading her thoughts, “It’s only temporary,” Merrill says, rising to her feet. “But if you need help, you only have to ask.” Holding out her hand – still slender, still delicate and entirely inconspicuous, not the kind of hand she’d imagine as belonging to a blood mage, she offers Ellana her assistance.

And Ellana, still reeling from the events of the past few weeks; the false gods, the pregnancy, the pirates and their timely rescue, not to mention the sudden release from her own body’s continuous and unforgiving betrayal – a small mercy atop of everything, perhaps, but worth more than she can possibly put into words –

Accepts.

 

* * *

 

It’s nearing supper one day, when entering the rotunda from one of his walks, Solas finds his attention drawn to a pair of raised voices from the rookery above.

“ _Pirates_?” Cullen exclaims, the word carrying a smidgen of disbelief. “Of all the Maker-damned things.”

“They are safe,” Leliana verifies, tone far more subdued. “My scouts have confirmed it. They are on their way back as we speak.”

“Any casualties?”

A moment of hesitation. “All of our agents,” she answers at length. “And the crew.”

An oath, softly uttered, followed by the sound of footsteps pacing across the planks. “But they fought them off? How did they get to Jader on a captain-less ship, with no crew?”

“There was – assistance.” He can almost hear the frown in her voice. “The message did not specify what kind, but I suspect we will hear the story first-hand, when they return.”

The assured  _when_  comes to settle, a warm weight in his chest. Solas releases a breath, a long-held knot of tension unfurling, and whatever else is said, he has no mind to listen.

She is safe, then.

He does not know what to feel. The relief is a given, though the sheer force of it is – surprising, though not an unwelcome feeling, he finds, when he allows himself to consider it. And he spends the rest of the day looking for the restlessness that’s plagued him for the past few weeks, but finds no trace of it. Instead what remains is – something else. If he were younger he’d call it anticipation and relish in the truth of it, but it’s been centuries since he deserved anything close to a feeling of that kind, felt for his own sake an no one else’s.

But he tucks it away, to consider closer on another occasion, when his mind is not quite so full of thoughts, and the Keep has quieted down enough for him to sort through them all.

As it stands, the news of their survival and the rumours surrounding the event reach Skyhold long before Ellana and the others, and it’s not until several days later, with the afternoon sun sinking beyond the stone parapets that a runner comes tearing into the Keep, shouting at the top of his lungs words that seem to echo in the very walls –

“The Lady Inquisitor’s returned!”

Solas does not run. Instead he places his book down, fingers curling together to keep them from shaking, and rises calmly to his feet.

Cole joins him by the door, appearing at his elbow as he makes to descend the steps. “They cheer,” he observes, watching the people milling in the courtyard. “But they are not alone. A long-held breath released. The stone feels, too. It’s quiet now. Content.”

The words hang, unanswered as they approach the gates where some of the others have gathered, watching the procession of travellers ride in. It’s a far smaller party than the one that set out, weeks ago now, some dragging tired feet, while others walk with rigid backs; their chins raised at the sight of the assembly to greet them.

He’s no longer surprised at the lack of effort it takes, to pick out her silhouette in a crowd of others.

She’s perched atop her horse, not her favourite mare but a gelding, almost comically large in comparison, and her sudden smallness only adds to her bedraggled appearance, the pale pallor of her cheeks drawing his gaze, and her hollow, sunken eyes looking unusually large in her face. She carries the long journey on her brow, but a tired smile curves along her lips upon the sight of the people crowding the gates to welcome her back.

Solas remains in the periphery of the crowd, watching the approaching party. Cassandra is the first to dismount, cutting through the throng, likely to seek out Cullen or Leliana. The others linger, and letting his eyes skirt the heads of the travelling party, he picks out two who did not set out from Skyhold. A tall, buxom woman, skin dark like burnished copper and with a rather large hat perched on her dark curls, is exchanging words with Dorian, keeping to the back of the group. And at the front of the procession next to Ellana’s gelding walks an elf,  _vallaslin_  stark against her pale cheeks and bearing her apostate’s staff openly.

A short, startled bark of a laugh is loosed somewhere behind him, and he turns to find Varric walking up, grin wide and slightly disbelieving. “ _Daisy_?”

The little elf perks up at the name, before a smile blooms across her face, elation bright as a sunburst. Her answering shriek holds enough happiness to dispel the tremor of tense anticipation that’s washed over the crowd. “Varric!”

Quick feet cover the well-trod earth, and then she’s thrown herself at the dwarf, pulling laughter from his chest that seems, for once, entirely without the sombre undertone Solas has come to expect.

The dark-skinned woman saunters up from between the horses, crooked smile holding a much quieter joy. “What, no love for me, Varric?”

Pulling away from the embrace, Varric shakes his head. “I’m tempted to say my eyes are betraying me, but I’ve seen some weird shit in the last two years,” he laughs. “Rivaini, as I live and breathe. What are you doing here?”

She shrugs. “Oh, you know. Brought here by circumstances. Adventure, travel…” She flashes a grin. “Attempted burial at sea.”

Varric shakes his head. “Never a dull moment with you, Rivaini.”

“It’s more adventure that I’d have liked in a lifetime, but then that’s me,” Ellana speaks up then. “I could use a dull moment or two. Or ten.”

The remark draws Solas’ attention, buries deep and uproots something he’s tried very hard to contain – the thoughts that have haunted him, of her whereabouts and her wellbeing. And the worst of all, the confirmation to his fears – that the only news to reach Skyhold would be of her demise.

And something grabs hold of him – some brash, youthful impulse he barely recognizes, but he doesn’t stop to question it, the fact that he feels it or the wisdom behind what it spurs him into doing. And so it’s without thinking that he moves, pushing past the people gathered, those who have flocked to her side, without a shepherd in her absence but eager now, for the peace her presence brings.

She’s just dismounted, her fingers still holding onto the straps of her saddle when he reaches her, and his name is a startled sound on her lips when he moves to slide one hand into her hair, the other around her waist, and then–

And then she is everywhere, and everything, the softness of her skin and the surprised parting of her mouth, a hesitant press against his own. He feels the solid weight of her under his hands, the hitch of her breath and the realness of her being, now in his arms. But her shock only lasts a moment, before her hands are fisting in his tunic, not pulling him close but simply holding, as though to keep him, and the tilt of her head is an eager welcome, her returning kiss containing an enthusiasm that drops something startlingly hot into the pit of his stomach.

The previously chattering crowd has gone unnervingly quiet, but Solas spares them no mind as he pulls back, but not far enough to escape the shuddering breath that falls from her mouth. He does not drop the hand that cradles her face.

“Hi,” she says, breathless; cheeks flushed beneath the press of his fingers and eyes as wide as he’s ever seen them.

And if he could have mustered an eloquent reply, he would have presented it now, but as it is all he can do is stare.

A loud hoot, and someone laughs, and like the releasing of a collective breath, the crowd erupts, a chorus of cheers. Solas takes it in stride, letting his hand drop, but Ellana tucks her hair behind her ear, and ducks her head with a smile.

Someone slaps him on the back then, and he staggers forward a step, nearly taking Ellana with him. Turning his head, it’s to find Iron Bull grinning. “Damn, Boss.”

Beside him, Varric is sporting a look that could almost be called impressed. “Didn’t know you had it in you, Chuckles.”

“Would you look at that – nugs do fly,” Dorian muses, stepping past them. “Although I’m not beyond believing just about anything at this point,” he adds, with a meaningful glance at Solas.

The look says enough, and glancing at Ellana, his question is answered when she averts her eyes.

They’re standing close – closer still, after Iron Bull’s affectionate shove, but she hasn’t tried to pull away, and for all that they’ve got the eyes of the entire crowd trained on them, Solas doesn’t think even he could manage.

“I aim to surprise,” he says instead. The quiet remark makes her look up, visibly startled.

And if there is truth in the words, it surprises him as much as it does her, but he doesn’t regard the hope that sparks in her eyes now with quite the same despair as he once did.

 

* * *

 

It takes a while for the ruckus to die down, but then Ellana exclaims a dire need of a warm bath, leaving him with a last look, standing by the gates as the crowd slowly scatters and disperses.

He’s not surprised to find the Seeker remaining.

“Solas,” she says, and for once, her expression does not betray her feelings. “A word?”

His answer is a nod, and he falls into step beside her as she begins walking towards the stables, a good ways off from the people still gathered in the vicinity of the gates. There’s a tense set to her shoulders, and even if he can’t read her thoughts on her face, they are clear as anything in the way she holds herself; the way she walks.

When they’ve put a sufficient distance between themselves and anyone else, Cassandra comes to a stop, but Solas is the first to speak. “Am I to presume you know, then?”

The press of her lips is a hard line when she nods.

He returns the gesture. “I see.”

She seems to consider him, and Solas wonders how many times she’s prepared this conversation in her head. At least she isn’t coming at him with her sword, but it’s an empty comfort, and he quells his smile, regretful thing that it is. It would not do him any favours to antagonize her.

“It is worrisome,” she says at length. And with what he’d expected her to say, it’s a surprisingly diplomatic approach.

“I assure you, Seeker, that you are not alone in your concerns. As far as mutual plans go, this was not one we had discussed.”

Her expression hardens. “I am not unreasonable, Solas,” she says, shifting her weight a little. “And I do not know you to be reckless. Well,” she says. “Not  _you_. But I will concede there are – certain merits to a relationship, in these times. I would not advocate celibacy simply because we are at war.” He pretends not to see the flush in her cheeks. “But there are matters to consider. Complications, as you have no doubt discovered.”

His smile is rueful. “The circumstances are not ideal, I will admit.”

“And the child?”

He does not answer. There is a part of him, fiercely logical and pragmatic in all things, that would concede. Ellana’s condition is not ideal, and what follows is, naturally, that the child is the same.

But the part of him that’s spent weeks without word, considering the child that might or might no longer be a possibility – that’s considered small, curious hands and finely pointed ears – silences the words before he can speak them.

Cassandra nods. He can’t tell if she’s pleased by his lack of response. Or perhaps his silence was answer enough.

“I will strive to be more vigilant,” she declares then. “We cannot afford to be careless.” And there is a story there, in her darkened gaze, but not one she’s willing to tell. Instead all she says is, softly, “Not again.”

Then she’s striding past him, a new purpose in her step, and even if she’s not willing to talk about what happened on their journey, she’s revealed more than enough for Solas to put the pieces together.

Still, there’s one person who’d be more willing to talk. And where just a few weeks earlier he’d have given her space rather than seek her out, the decision he makes now is a different one, spurred by an impulse similar to the one that had prompted him to kiss her, but far more subdued.

He makes for the Keep via the rotunda, his feet taking him down the length of the main hall, towards the door at the bottom. No one spares him a second glance; talk of the display at the gates has no doubt spread, more fodder to a rumour mill that’s been churning for months. But he keeps his eyes trained forward and his attention on the door; at the stone steps beyond. He’s walked this path many times, each time with a different purpose, it seems, but his footfalls are quiet now. Steady, unlike the erratic jump of his heart, because after so many weeks it’s almost difficult to believe that she’s back.

When he clears the landing it’s to find her seated on the bed. A copper tub sits by the fireplace, just recently lit by the chill that’s still in the room. Steam rises from the water, an inviting warmth, and at any other time he’d have expected her to jump it at first opportunity, but she seems content to take her time.

The reason why is made clear a moment later, catching her gaze as she lifts it to meet his. She doesn’t seem surprised to see him, Solas discovers, noting the small smile that blossoms, and finds in response a quickening in his chest. For the briefest of moments it roots his feet to the spot, and suddenly he’s forgotten everything he’d thought to say.

For her part, Ellana looks markedly more relaxed than she had earlier. Exhaustion still sits, an unnatural brightness in her eyes, but her loose shoulders say infinitely more about her current state of mind. And for some reason he thinks he might know what she’ll say –  _Took your time_ , perhaps.  _The bath is getting cold._ An easy, flirtatious banter that had once come so naturally, but that he hasn’t heard in a long time.

And he’s not surprised to find himself hoping for it, but what she says instead is, “I see you’re still standing.” Though there’s a flicker of humour there, a dear warmth that seems to prevail, no matter the situation.

“I am as surprised as you,” he counters, relieved to find his words now, when he looks for them.

Running a hand through her hair, a grimace pulls on her features. “I think our extended voyage from Cumberland cooled her off, though she’s been in a – mood.”

“Thankfully, not a volatile one.”

Her laugher is soft, falling just under her breath. She’s fiddling with the ties of her dressing robe – a nervous habit he recognizes, with a sudden spark of fondness. She’s working up the nerve to say something, then.

“There’s room to sit, you know,” she says. It’s just an observation – she’s still treading carefully, as though he might just turn on his heel and leave if he so pleased. 

_If you only knew that I cannot._ But these are words he keeps to himself, and instead of answering, Solas moves to take a seat on the bed beside her.

They’re not quite touching, but he feels her warmth where she sits, feet tucked beneath her, a familiar repose, and when she sighs he feels her sink against the mattress.

“I’ve missed you,” she says then, softly. She’s looking at her hands, slender fingers entwined in her lap.

He doesn’t reach out to take them. “As have I.”

She smiles, but instead of ducking her head further, lifts her eyes. “Yeah, I – kind of got the impression.” She clears her throat. “As did a lot of people.”

He breathes a laugh. “So it would seem.”

They fall silent, sitting there. He takes a moment to let the truth of her presence settle, and marvels at the feeling it prompts – the sense of a missing piece settling like a sigh into a groove he wasn’t aware existed within him. What would he have done if she’d failed to return? Gone about his plan another way, as though she’d never existed? A minor obstacle in a path already riddled with mistakes?

“I’ve started to show.”

The quiet declaration drags him out of his thoughts, and he looks up, only to find Ellana looking at her stomach, a sheepish smile pulling at her mouth. “It’s not a lot, and it’s not very noticeable unless I’ve stripped down to my smalls, but–” Her eyes find his, and she opens her mouth, as though to continue, but snaps it shut again. “I wasn’t – I’m not going to ask if you–”

“I would like to,” he says, before she can finish, and her breath leaves her in a rush.

“Oh – ah. Alright.” Her hands are on the front of her robe then, loosening the knot. It’s not the ease with which she’d worked loose the buttons of her shirt that night in the glen, but she doesn’t seem to think twice about it as she tugs the robe away, baring everything.

“It’s not much,” she repeats, as though worried she’d been overselling it, and he’s about to retort with something clever, but finds he can’t.

There is a bump. It’s small, barely discernible, nothing but a slight roundness to the soft skin that he remembers so clearly beneath his hands, and barely indicative of her condition, but–

But.

He’s reaching out without thinking now – without asking if she minds, but she doesn’t pull away when he lays the flat of his palm against the curve just below her breasts, her skin warm and inviting. He knows how to look for further evidence, but he doesn’t, content just to feel the physical sign now, a truth more tangible than the one he’d felt that night, sitting at her bedside while she slept.

Her fingers brush against his hand then – not an accident, he knows, when she curls them hesitantly around his own.

And there’s that feeling of teetering – between what they were, once, and what they are. What they might be. He remembers the kiss, and the feel of her, all-consuming in its honesty; the realness he’s denied for so long but that’s everywhere now, like her existence is etched on his very bones.

He thinks about kissing her again, and what it would mean.

She sucks in a breath then, as though submerging from some deep thought. “I need to be more careful,” she declares, and the severity behind the words drags his thoughts back to where they are.

With care, Solas draws his hand back, but she doesn’t rush to pull her robe closed. It’s a strangely intimate display. “I may have overheard something about pirates,” he says, opting for a lighter approach, lest she draw in on herself like the Seeker.

Ellana laughs, but it’s an entirely humourless mirth now. “With all the trouble I land myself in, I’m surprised a dragon didn’t descend upon us.” She pauses; works her bottom lip between her teeth. “I could recount the more exciting aspects of our journey, if you have a moment? I mean, we could wait until I’ve had my bath, or you could–” She hesitates, the pause a brief thing, before she chances, “Stay.”

Another offer, like the space on the bed. A small step, where she’d used to take leaps.

Solas smiles, making to rise from the bed, and when he reaches for her now it’s her hand that he takes, and with a surety that lures a startled breath from her lungs. A surprise she can’t quite stifle, as he pulls her off the mattress and towards the tub.

He thinks he feels it – the path reshaping beneath his feet. He can’t yet tell where it leads.

“If you would have me,” he says, and in the softening of her eyes, finds the answer he’s been looking for, in those long weeks without her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Taking some liberties with blood magic and anatomy in this one; it's not too far-fetched, and hopefully easily overlooked, unless there are any blood magic enthusiasts among you who'll come barging down my door. In which case all I have to say is...tea or coffee?


End file.
